World Conference:  An American Perspective
by Streamingwords
Summary: A series of vignettes featuring America's experiences at the World Conference through the years.  Warning:  Contains some bits of romance between America and other nations.
1. Chapter 1

Hello, fellow Hetalia fans. Yes, I know what you're probably thinking: "Stream, why are you starting a new story when you haven't finished _From the Ashes _yet? Stop being a slacker and finish what you started!" Rest assured that I have every intention to see FoA through to the end, dear readers. While in the middle of writing, a plot for another story kept nagging me and would not leave me alone until I got it down.

Story: These will be a series of vignettes featuring the many times America visited the World Conference throughout the years. History will be included (with liberties taken), romance between personified nations (read: manxman love) will occur, and some potentially mature subject matters will happen during the course of these segments (maybe).

Please let me know if this seems like another worthwhile endeavor. Feedback is the fuel that feeds my muse.

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_World Conference - 1765_

America had been excited when England had announced to him that he would – for the first time – accompany the nation across the sea to his homeland. There was some important meeting that England had to attend. Now that America was no longer a small child, England mentioned that it was time for him to make a proper debut as a British colony on the world's stage. He had not provided America with many details, though the teen could hardly be bothered to stay still long enough to listen. America became next to impossible the moment he had heard the news.

Then they had been out at sea and he had known nothing but sickness the entire way. England had been as dutiful a caretaker as ever. As the teen agonized over the illness, the man had soothed him with kind words and gentle touches. When America vomited, England's warm hand would smooth across his back without one word of complaint for the mess being made. At night, when the swaying of the ship caused America to toss and turn restlessly in the large bed he shared in England's cabin, England would lay upon the covers next to him, whispering the old legends and tales from his home, all while his hand traced small circles over America's sore belly.

During the daytime, England would leave America alone for hours on end as he handled the tasks associated with commanding the ship. Sometimes America would hear the sound of England's voice through the door – it was always sounded strange, harsh and commanding, with a low growl in its timbre that America had never heard before. England often raised his voice while outside of the cabin. He used colorful words that America barely knew, but sensed that he'd be punished for if he ever dared repeating them.

When England came into the cabin, everything was different. He would remove his hat and hang it on its hook near the door. A few occasions, he forgot about the patch over his eye, removing it with a blush and an apology whenever America pointed it out. These segments of time were reserved for lessons, more and more involved ones now that he was older. England would instruct or quiz him mercilessly. Commerce, economics, history, politics – America's brain was stuffed to the brim with all the information that England was determined to cram inside. It made his head dizzy. He discovered that if he behaved as though the sickness was affecting him, even when it wasn't, it would commonly cause England to retreat from his lessons for a while.

Sometimes, with no explanation, England would enter the cabin in a foul mood. He would be gruffer with America than usual. Those times were filled with lectures, with disapproving comments directed at the teen. England might pull his shoulders up straighter and accuse him of slouching, or correct how he held his cup of tea. The man was critical of every move made by America and had no qualms sharing his critique. One particular day, England had slapped his hands on his desk in frustration. "You're so vexing, America. What am I to do with you, when you simply refuse to learn how to conduct yourself in a proper manner?"

A few times England's words bit deep enough that America wanted to weep. His young pride would not allow it, so he braced his hands upon his lap and dug his fingernails into the heels of his palms. He was helpless to do anything but wait for this dark anger in England to pass. It always did, leading to the inevitable remorse from the older man, when he would shower the silent America with apologies and praises. Didn't America understand how important he was? How he had the distinction of being Britain's most cherished colony? England would sit down with him for tea, the sickness would creep up over America, and the pattern would repeat all over again.

They finally reached London. America had abandoned any notions he'd entertained about growing to become a merchant sea trader. The trip had proven to him that he was suited to land instead of sea. He'd let others more attuned to the water element keep the privilege of sailing without him. America would stay with his feet planted on solid ground.

Not that this land made him feel any better. As soon as he stepped off the aged wood of the piers, America understood what it felt like to be on soil that belonged to someone else. This dank patch of earth belonged to England. It did not invite him or welcome him. Instead, it greeted him with cold apathy, like uncaring stones underfoot. He didn't like the feeling. This foreign land seemed to whisper to him that it would tolerate him for now, but it would never accept him.

Was this how England felt whenever he visited America's home? The teen snuck a careful study of his caretaker when the man became absorbed in handling their arrival and other arrangements. England had never looked pained in all the times that he had come to America. His shoulders never appeared to weigh heavily with this sense of unwelcome. He was only ever happy while in America's house.

Perhaps this was because America was different than England. He was a separate entity from the Old World; America was the 'new world' - it appeared that the old one did not want him there where the history was already deep, the land was aged by battles and by time. America was from a place still rich with unexplored possibility. These grounds were old, tired, and bitter.

England guided him into a carriage while he was absorbed in his thoughts. His heart began to hammer in his chest as he felt a slice of enthusiasm again. This was London – America knew that this was the heart of England. It would be his first time seeing a city so established, so full of life. The buildings here were old, looked old. They did not have the fresh shine and polish of the ones back home. England began the carriage ride on the opposite seat. When America's delighted gasps and admiration of these strange places won him over enough to sacrifice propriety, England swung himself into the seat beside the teen. He draped an arm across the teen's shoulders, speaking quietly in America's ear as he named each new, strange building that dazzled the young colony's eyes.

They arrived at England's home after a short trip. It was larger than America's house, far more elegant. England was eager to give him a tour of the entire manor. He took hold of the teen's hand and tugged him along to see each room, on all three floors, America catching glimpses of several unknown, fascinating objects that littered the sprawling expanse of England's home. There were gardens in the back that England promised to show him when it was daytime and the rain was not so dreary. He was also given some parameters – certain places in the house were strictly forbidden to America. England would not give him specifics (he undoubtedly anticipated that America's curiosity would lead him to investigate those same areas, which was a correct assumption), and instead just warned him that there would be dire consequences if he trespassed.

America was given his own room. England had presented it to him with a little flourish, in that subtle dramatic way he would always deny having. It was meticulously decorated down to the last detail. America could tell that this had not been treated as just any other room; England had poured considerable energy into every hue of wood, every strip of fabric, blending together pieces of his own culture with that of America's emerging tastes. There was a painting of stallions running free across wild lands here, a cluster of red roses in a little vase there that made the entire room smell sweet with the fragrance of England's beloved flower, the fresh paper on the walls was the pale blue of America's morning skies, the green of the coverlet matched his caretaker's eyes almost perfectly.

Something on the dresser caught his eye. America walked to it, plucking up a tiny redcoat soldier where it sat as if on guard. A few others dotted the surface; his own little unit of redcoats standing at attention. He lifted that one up in his palm with a questioning look at England.

The man laughed lightly, awkwardly rubbing a finger across the bottom of his nose. "Oh, yes. I'd meant to bring them over with me. It was always just a matter of time."

America put it back in its exact spot with a vague smile. "I see. Now I'll have enough for a proper army when I return home."

Over the next week, America spent plenty of time in his room. There seemed no end to the rain that fell in London. It had been raining when their ship arrived, and it had rained every day after. America had never seen such a persistent drizzle. How anyone could stand to live in such conditions was beyond his comprehension. He stared dully out the window as it tapped against the glass. England didn't mind the constant downpour, content with staying indoors as often as his schedule allowed. America could not tolerate the lack of freedom, unable to roam outside to see the sights that teased him beyond the windowpane.

He tried to appeal to England once or twice. His restless wandering would take him into England's study where the nation was constantly busy signing papers, reading documents, or sketching notes on an aged yellow map. The first time, he had just tried a casual approach. Standing on the opposite side of England's large desk, America stated his desire. "I thought that I might go out into the city today. It's been three days now; I haven't seen anything of London since we arrived. Can I?"

England had not missed a beat with his writing, black quill scratching over a piece of parchment without so much as an upward glance. "The correct way to ask is 'May I', and the answer is no. As you can undoubtedly see, I am far too busy to take you on a tour. Another day, perhaps."

America had returned to his room, dejected and heavy with disappointment. England did not take him the next day or the day after. The teen's desperation to get out of the house had peaked to a feverish pitch. He sought England out when he thought his mind was on the verge of rupturing. Again in his study, again occupied with work. America knew that an outright request would just be denied – he devised a better strategy.

England did not look up from his work, even when America let himself in with a knock on the door. That sandy blonde head was bowed like normal, a mess of hair shadowing those engrossed green eyes. America took some time pretending to peruse the selection of books that lined England's study, floor to ceiling stuffed with novels that America had never heard of, some in languages that he did not recognize. His feigned interest was all a ruse that he employed so that he had an excuse to inch closer to that desk without providing England any reason to question his intent.

Finally, America had cleared the path between the door and the desk. He stepped around it to shadow the space behind England's chair. Could he follow through with his plan? He'd not been too openly affectionate with the older man since the day England had returned to America, bewildered to see him grown so quickly. It felt so much more awkward now, as if his increased size and age made it inappropriate. Regardless, he needed to give it his best attempt if he had any hope of persuading England to let him out.

He leaned over the top of the chair, his arms sliding slowly forward to lock in a loose circle around the tops of England's shoulders. The older man had gone stiff, ink blotching on a corner of the parchment, as America enfolded him up into that easy embrace. England's lilting voice went an octave deeper in his surprise. "America? What are you doing?"

"Visiting you. Or do I require an appointment now to do so?" America teased. He pressed a kiss to England's cheek, feeling the skin heat up under his lips right before he pulled back. His chin nestled in the juncture of the older man's shoulder as he blinked down at the documents on England's desk. It wasn't hard to read the neat, cramped script of the words. There was something about problems with France, a trade embargo of some kind that would be imposed on the neighboring nation. America knew, from his extensive lessons from England, that the document was nothing more than the flowery verbal prequel to yet another war.

"You're smothering me." England shrugged the teen's arms off his shoulders with a frown. He would not turn to look at America, flushed with his exasperation.

America withdrew his arms, feeling a pang of hurt at the easy dismissal. "It never bothered you before."

"That was then, this is now. You are not a child any longer, America. There are certain types of behavior to expect from an older boy like yourself that are different from those allowed to a small one."

"'Older boy'?" America frowned at the description. He clasped his hands tightly at his back, fingers lacing together in an unhappy fidget. "Don't you mean 'young man'?"

"You should know by now, America: I say precisely what I mean and mean precisely what I say." England's face turned, a sliver of green peeking at the teen. "Now what is your purpose? Or did you simply come in here to interrupt me?"

"I want to go out." America's plea was impassioned. "I can't take this enclosure any longer. It has been an entire week since you brought me here and I have not been outside even once. Please, England, may I go out?"

That lone emerald eye regarded him in silence, and then narrowed. It turned back out of his line of sight as England uttered the same flat response as usual. "No."

America was floored with shock then riled by anger. He marched around to the front of England's desk so that he could see the man's face. England had his jaw clenched, eyes offering America nothing but apathy. The teen slammed his palms on the top of the desk, his unnatural strength causing the entire thing to quake, as he shouted. "Why? Why not? Why, England, did you ever go to the trouble of bringing me here? All that you have done is brought me to a land that doesn't want me, into a house that only chokes me, while you do nothing except ignore me at all hours! It is as if you aren't even here! If it was your intention to be so close but maintain such a distance, then I would have been better off if you had left me across the ocean!"

"America, please…" The teen's words left England troubled. It served him right – precisely what he deserved.

Throwing a hand up, America dismissed his plea in the same callous manner that England himself had done. "No. Forget it. I will stay locked in here if that is your wish. I will attend your important meeting. When this is done, however, never consider inviting me again." He stomped his foot to emphasize his declaration and pivoted smoothly to stalk out of the study.

Returning to the room that was his sanctuary and his prison, America slammed the door shut behind him. He threw himself onto the bed with a frustrated growl, his legs stretching clear to the foot of the bed, though the teen had not even bothered to remove his boots. America roughly took hold of his pillows as he lay on his stomach, crumpling them into his arms with a clasp of his arms similar to the one he'd tried to hold England in. These pillows were softer, more yielding, and less full of protests. America sullenly buried his face into their softness as he made up his mind that he would never set foot out of his room again.

He heard the door to his room open minutes later. England's steps caused the floorboards to creak as a signal of his hesitation as he lingered in the threshold. America did not bother to look up or remove his face from the pillows. He would prove to the man that he was just as capable at ignoring another so cruelly. The teen waited, holding his breath, to see what England was going to do.

The mattress dipped on the left side as England sat down. America slid his cheek across the softness of his pillow so that he could peek at the man without notice. He need not have worried, because England had sat on the edge of the mattress with his back to the teen. The older man's shoulders were bowed as if some great weight rested upon them. Though America could not see his face from this angle, England's posture alone spoke of weariness, the man's spine curled as he clasped his hands in his lap, face pointed towards the floor. America felt a sudden urge to rise up and embrace him. He was supposed to be sulking over the mistreatment of the nation, though, so the teen managed to push that aside.

England spoke to him without looking back. His words were underscored by that pleading lilt, the one he always used when he wanted America to comprehend something important. "You must understand, America, that it was not my intention to put you in this circumstance. I did not anticipate that things would turn out this way when I invited you here. The timing of all of this was terrible; had it been nothing but the conference to fret over, then I would have had more time to entertain you like a proper host. Now I am saddled with this nonsense from France, and the King has decided to invoke new policies on our colonies to balance the cost of war. I am working for my land just as I am working for yours – the work has overwhelmed me for the moment."

"I can handle the affairs of my own land – just tell me what needs to be done." America murmured quietly. Hearing England unload these troubles upon him had made him forget to be angry towards the man. "You know that I am capable. The burden doesn't have to be yours."

"Ah, but it does." England twisted around now with a tiny smile. "I don't generally mind it. I am an empire now, by my own making, and I will accept the responsibilities that come with the obligation of ruling the world." His hand settled on America's head, fingers sinking into the teen's hair. The tips of them tingled where they brushed against America's scalp. "For you, I will see it through. I am working for the both of us, to spare you from these burdens a while longer, because I want to see your carefree smile for as long as I can keep it." He dropped his hand down to the mattress beside him.

England glanced out the nearby window. Standing, he debated with himself, before murmuring. "The rain has subsided a little. If you… if you promise not to get too dirty, or to track anything into the house, then I suppose there is no harm in you exploring the gardens – only the gardens, though! I don't want you wandering beyond the gates, do you hear me?" His eyes searched piercingly beyond the glass, his next words spoken mostly to himself. "It's not safe out there for you, not this close to those other predators, not beyond this sanctuary…"

America was thrilled to receive permission to venture outside. At last! Even if it were only to explore the grounds around the manor, it was a welcome change to these four walls that suffocated him. He dropped the pillows and scooted quickly over to throw his arms around England's waist. This time, he was not rebuked, as the older man just laughed and ruffled his hair. "Yes, well. My furniture is quite old and I would not want your temper to cause anything to be broken. Just be sure that you are back inside by nightfall."

"I promise!" The teen vowed. He released England when the man took a step away, face spread into a beaming smile that erased some of the weariness from England's own expression. America sat on his bed as the other nation went to return to his study, calling after him before the man disappeared out the door. "England? What did you mean when you said that it wasn't safe?"

England stopped in the doorway. He seemed surprised by the question, an enigmatic smile forming. "Ah. Did I say that? My apologies – I must have been wondering aloud. It's nothing for you to concern yourself over, America. Nothing at all." The man changed the subject as his smile dropped into a frown, shaking his finger at the teen. "And America? Don't wear your boots in bed. You'll stain the coverlet. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to return to work."

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The gardens behind England's home were impressive. Everything seemed designed in an intricate pattern, and all of the hedges were flawlessly trimmed. With the constant rain to nurture the soil, everything smelled of clean, living earth. America was immersed in the scent of flowers as he walked the pebble trails that wound through the greenery. Roses were everywhere in a range of vibrant colors, though England clearly preferred them in a brilliant crimson hue. There was an aged gazebo that America discovered around a particularly tall row of hedges. He took shelter beneath it when a downpour threatened to spill. The teen watched thick droplets of rain slip through a slim crack in the gazebo's crown, splashing the wood boards below.

America had discovered that everything beyond the gazebo was in a state of neglect. The statuaries were pale shapes almost swallowed up by dark green vines. A few of them had been crushed by the force of nature, shattered limbs lay half-buried in a mass of lush greenery. It seemed that England had given up on this section of gardens several years in the past. The trees overhead drooped mournfully over the entire thing, casting it in shadows.

After a couple of days of exploring, America made up his mind that he was going to make fixing it his project. Naturally, he made no mention of his plan to England. The older man probably would have disapproved of him toiling on the land, getting dirty, or else might have just berated him for taking up such a pointless endeavor. No, it became something that America did all on his own, since his caretaker left him alone for hours. He would make it a gift for England. It would be something to remind the older man of his presence here when America returned to his homeland.

One morning, as he was laboring to extract a majestic stone lion statue from under a particularly stubborn clutch of vines, America heard someone call out to him from the back gate of the property.

"_Bonjouuuuur_, England! It is your dear friend—oh!"

America had straightened from his squatted position, peering at the gate from the opposite side of the statue. He was as surprised to see a man at the gate just as the man was astonished to see him. There was something familiar about the fellow that America could not place. He brushed his hands together to shake off some dirt, ambling a few strides over to the towering black wrought iron that half-obscured the man outside. "Um, I'm sorry. He's working inside the house."

The newcomer was dressed flashily. His pale blue jacket was trimmed in silver, rows of lace jutting out from the cuffs of his sleeves as well as billowing out at his throat. A large amethyst was pinned to the cravat on his neck, jewels glinting from the rings worn on his fingers. He reminded America of some exotic bird with bright plumage. The man's hair was curled in gold ringlets, overshadowed by the white powdered wig balanced atop his head. His blue eyes made a slow passage over America from top to bottom and back, before he smiled. "My, my. I hardly recognized you – would you be America, by chance?"

"Yes. You… know me?"

"We have met before." His accent was thick, a different music than England's. It played well on the ears. The man lifted an upturned wrist in a flamboyant gesture, fingers curling in towards his chest. "I would not blame you for not remembering your big brother France. You were such a little tyke at the time."

America stared at him for a while to try and place his face with a memory. Then he snapped his fingers, pointing at the man. "That's right! You were the woman with the food."

France laughed, though it sounded forced. "Oh ho ho. Of course you were just an infant at the time, so naturally it would have been an easy mistake to make. _Oui_, America, I was that same nation." His hand lowered from his chest, long fingers tapping upon the massive lock that held the gate closed. "We have so much to catch up on, don't we? Oh, you must have so many interesting stories to share from back home. This gate here is rather a nuisance, _non_? Why don't you open it for dear France so that I may come in and speak with you?"

"Sure, I—" America had been stepping forward to comply when an abrupt thought crossed his mind. He recalled what England had said about trouble with France. The man probably wouldn't approve of him letting the other nation onto the property without permission. Chewing on his bottom lip, the teen looked apologetic. "Sorry. I probably shouldn't. England might become unhappy with me if I let you in. He hasn't had any visitors since we arrived. You should probably walk around to the front and speak to him first."

"Hm. I understand." France shook his head, exaggerating his disappointment as he clucked his tongue. "It was entirely my mistake. You are just a _boy_, after all. I had forgotten that it is England who makes the decisions. We will just have to have our conversation another day, then." He waved mournfully. "_Au revoir_, America. Until next time."

"W-wait!" The teen said hurriedly. France had been turning away from the gate until America spoke. Wavering between decisions, the teen finally reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. England had provided him with a key in the event that he was called away on business matters, though America doubted that it had been intended for this use. The cold metal of the key dug into his palm as the teen squeezed it.

His eyes locked with France's. The older man smiled impishly. "What England doesn't know won't hurt him, _oui_? I will be gone before he can even catch on that I am here."

America exhaled slowly. He went to the gate, fitting the key into the lock. It was rusty, so the teen had to fight to turn it. The lock came open with a click and America began to unwind the chain from around the bars of the gate. "Okay. Let's just keep it a short visit. It will be time for tea soon and he will come to fetch me."

France smiled broadly as the teen pressed open the gate for him. With that unspoken invitation, he slipped through the gap and onto the property. The man looked curiously around the overgrowth of the garden, stroking the stubble on his chin. "England has really let this go."

"He's been busy." America shrugged as he stood near the other man. France was examining the area with a critical eye, picking his way delicately amongst the brush. "I've actually tried to get it cleaned up for him. You can see where I stopped." The teen gestured towards the lion statue that he had begun to unearth.

"_Oui_. Being that you are America, it does not surprise me that you have skill with taming such wild growth." France remarked pleasantly as he leaned in to examine that indicated statuary. "This is in disrepair too! _Mon Dieu_!" He shook his head disapprovingly. "England doesn't know how to take care of his possessions well, does he?"

His eyes appraised America as he asked the question. The teen tried to puzzle out what he meant. "Well, he does have a lot of responsibilities. I don't think he meant to neglect his garden. The hedges close to the house are all very well maintained. This is the only part that has grown wild."

"How appropriately metaphorical." France chuckled.

"What do you mean?"

"Presentable and well-groomed on the surface; dark, wild and uncontrolled further in. It reminds me of your England in a way." The man shrugged as he stepped away from the statue. France shot a quick look up to the sky, a distant roll of thunder heralded yet another downpour as a few raindrops pelted down on his wig. "Despicable rain – shall we retreat to the gazebo?"

They hurried together to the covered shelter, France placing a hand on his wig to keep it from blowing off his head as the breeze picked up. It had been calm, dreary skies just a bit ago and now it seemed that a storm was rolling in. America eyed the darkened clouds before following France inside the gazebo. He had left his jacket hanging inside, slipping it on now that it had turned colder. There wasn't much more work that he was going to get done in this bad weather anyway. They had made it just in time, as the clouds opened up a torrent around the gazebo.

France stuck his tongue out in displeasure at this turn of events. "I am surprised that this entire island hasn't drowned in the tides, as often as it's flooded."

"I noticed that myself." America smiled wryly. He hopped up onto the rail of the gazebo, aged paint flaking off the wood beneath him. The teen's legs dangled lazily over the edge as he watched France pace around the gazebo. "It doesn't rain nearly this much back home. Is it like this in France, too?"

"Some parts, I suppose. It makes the land more fertile, so in a way it is a blessing. There are places in the world where the rain never falls." France was unable to speak without gestures. America was fascinated with watching the man's hands flutter through the air. "I have seen desert lands further east, where the air is dry and arid. Nothing grows in those conditions. It is only sand stretching as far as the eye can see."

"Really? I'd love to see it someday." America tried to imagine what such a place would be like. It excited him to hear about something so exotic. England never provided him any details on what other parts of the world were like. Had England never seen a desert?

"There isn't much to see."

"I haven't seen anything outside of my home, so I'd be happy just to lay eyes on something new." America shrugged. "I have only caught a few glimpses of Canada's territory, and this is the first that I've visited England. Not that I have seen much of London…"

"Not seen London? It is all around you." France made a slow spin, smirking. "It is not as beautiful as Paris by far, but it has a certain rough charm."

"Um, well…" America scratched at the nape of his neck, not sure if he should explain himself to the man or not. "England hasn't really let me out of the house to see it. The only things I've seen of it were from the carriage ride here and the view from the windows upstairs."

France's face lost all its mirth. His blue eyes grew somber as he regarded the teen. "He is keeping you imprisoned here?"

"What? No!" America laughed nervously at the nation's serious tone. Both hands waved back and forth in the air in front of his chest to dissuade it. "No, it's nothing like that. He's just been very busy with work and hasn't had the time to take me out into the city. That's all."

"Are you certain, America?" France approached him slowly. America found the European getting very close. France's hands settled on the railing on either side of the teen, the warmth of the man's chest pushed up lightly against his knees as he gave America a measuring look. "You are his colony, that's very true, and I suppose he is within his rights to treat you as he desires, but it pains your big brother France to imagine that brutish pirate making you a prisoner."

America's blue eyes had widened. England maintained a better distance than this, so the teen was a little lost on how to take France's intimate proximity. "It… isn't like that."

France tilted his head slowly, the coils of his wig spilling across his shoulders with the motion. "_Non_? Then you are free to go out into the city whenever you wish? You seem old enough to be trusted on your own."

"England doesn't think that it's safe for me. I could get lost in a city this large."

"What about back at your home? Are you free to go wherever you like there?" France raised an eyebrow.

"Well…" America had to think about that one. Sure, he had a lot less restrictions when England wasn't around. He was able to broaden his horizons without having his caretaker to fret over him. Yet it occurred to him that he wasn't entirely alone during those excursions, was he? There was always someone with him, an escort of some type that stayed with him whenever he ventured off the property. And if he did anything too extraordinary or dangerous during those adventures, England always had a way of finding out about it somehow. "I get around enough. Really, France – I am grateful that you're concerned about me, but I assure you that there is no reason for it. England has given me every kindness; I owe him so much. He has given me everything that I have ever asked for."

"What about freedom?"

"Freedom?" The teen blinked.

France nodded soberly. His face came in closer to America's until the teen could actually feel the man's breaths on his face, contrasting with the chill of the air around them. France's breath smelled like bitter wine. "What about giving you the right to walk out of this gate without his permission? Has he given you that? Are you free to make your own path, or are you following his?"

"I've never… thought to ask, honestly." America admitted. His mind was still echoing with that word from before. _Freedom._ It rang through his mind like the church bells in the city that just now had begun to dutifully ring out the time, four clanging chimes that carried through the garden. Could he ask England for that? Was such a thing even possible? Something made his heart come alive in his chest as he spoke the word again, tasting it on his tongue. "Freedom."

He was distracted with his thoughts, so he didn't think to flinch back when France took his hands off the railing and placed them on his face instead, cupping his cheeks. America recovered from his thoughts as his body tensed with alarm. France's intentions become clear to him too late to prevent the man's warm mouth from dipping in as he found himself being kissed. America froze, as if the act had paralyzed him.

Out of everything he'd hoped to take back home with him, getting his first kiss from France had not made the list. Not that it was unpleasant. France seemed to know what he was doing. The way that his lips brushed against America's mouth actually felt nice. It was a feeling that he could get used to; he finally knew why so many people enjoyed doing this. Maybe one day he would even learn how to return one properly – all that he could do right now was sit there, his mouth not knowing what to do, his entire head feeling like a fire was cooking it from under the collar of his shirt.

France eased back with a little purr in his throat. He'd taken hold of the teen's bottom lip between his teeth, plucking it in a teasing way. America could see the pleasure written clear on his face. Though that pleasure melted into alarm followed by fear, as France took a step back from America. He hunched down, ducking just in time as a sharp crack split the air. America saw something tear through France's wig with enough force to send it flying off his head.

Mortified. He was mortified to the bone. Because as France scrambled to retrieve his fallen wig while simultaneously attempting to make a run for it, America caught a glimpse of red out of the corner of his eye. His head turned slowly to the foot of the gazebo to see the very man that he'd hoped would not have discovered them.

England's pistol was still smoking where he had it pointed at France. His hair was matted from the rain, crimson jacket a darker shade from all the moisture that had seeped in. He looked nothing at all like his usual self; his cheeks were flushed with anger, expression marked with a dangerous tension. Those gentle green eyes blazed with murderous intent. Without taking his eyes off of France's retreating figure, England reloaded the pistol. It was if America were not even there in that moment. He gave chase after the other nation, voice wrenching out of him thick with rage. "Get the hell back here, France! Accept your death like an honorable gentleman!"

France had already made it to the iron bars of the gate. His gold curls were flattened from the wig, bouncing wildly as he twirled around to sing victoriously back at the nation intent on his death. "You plundered my merchant vessels from me, England. Now I have plundered your precious colony's virgin kiss." France blew a kiss to the air between them, his laughter ringing loudly through the garden. "_Viva la France! Au Revoir_!"

France dashed out into the crowd, a few drably dressed Londoners darting curious glances at the colorful man that went running by them. England stopped at the gate. Firing off his pistol into the crowd risked both harming his subjects and raising questions from the authorities. He growled, tucking the gun into his belt. England took hold of both sides of the gate, shutting it with enough force that the entire metal contraption shook. With angry gestures, the man looped the chain back through the bars, stooping to pick up the lock from where it lay on the ground.

He held it up to examine it. Then, clarity dawned on his face, as England turned back at America. The teen was fumbling with his jacket, wiping at his mouth with his sleeves. The look on his face made America lower that arm as his body went numb all over. England finally relinquished that stare long enough to secure the lock in place. Every step that the man took towards the gazebo made America's heart feel heavier and heavier.

England stepped into the gazebo. He watched the rain drizzle down, soaked with it now. Stray locks of hair were weighted down by it, drips falling onto his shoulders as he stood there in silence. England seemed on the verge of some major emotion. He breathed in steadily, forcing the patterns of it to even out in an effort to collect his temper. Finally, he spoke, and America could hear the tension in his voice. "The lock wasn't broken."

"No." America said softly, his head hanging forward, eyes viewing England from behind a few stray wisps of hair.

"So France didn't break in, as I had initially thought."

"He didn't."

"Which could only mean that he was allowed inside."

"Yes…"

"And you're the one who let France into my home?"

America nodded remorsefully. He started to speak, desperately. "I didn't think that he would ever—"

England held a hand up, effectively silencing anything the teen had to say in his defense. He turned his palm over with beckoning fingers. "Give me your key."

"I swear that I won't—"

"America!" England snapped harshly. His anger was barely tethered. The teen had never seen it directed at him before. He could tell the struggle it took for England not to unleash it. "Your key. Hand it over."

America did not want to argue with a voice like that. His fingers shook as he grabbed the key out of his waistcoat, holding his breath as he deposited it into England's waiting palm. The man jammed it into his own pocket. Then his hand clamped down around America's forearm hard enough to bruise, as England pulled the teen towards the manor. America stumbled along behind him, his lanky legs unable to keep a steady pace as he was forced inside. He was stammering breathlessly, horrified with himself and with England's response. "I didn't mean to. He just said he wanted to talk. I had no idea it would come to that, England. England?"

The man refused to answer him or respond to his pleas. America was unable to suppress a flinch when England's grip tightened further as they reached the door to America's room. It felt like the bones in his wrist were grinding under the strength of that grasp. England must have forgotten how strong he was – America could not fathom that his caretaker would be hurting him deliberately. His door was kicked open by England, America finding himself being swung into the room so fast that his feet actually left the ground. He landed hard on the floor, grunting as he caught himself on his hands and his rear end.

England's eyes were full of accusation. "You are not to leave this room until permitted. I will have your meals brought into you by one of the servants and you will take tea alone in here."

"Don't do this, please." America breathed out. "England – _brother_ – you're frightening me."

"Let it be a lesson to you, then." England said coldly in response. "I have been lenient with you; the fault is entirely mine that you believe you are allowed to do as you please. Make no mistake that there are acts that go beyond my level of tolerance, America, and today you have succeeded in one that will not earn my forgiveness anytime soon. I will fetch you when it comes time for the meeting, but until then do not expect to see me."

"England!" America tried to scramble forward to the door before the other nation forced it shut. He slapped a palm against the wood as he heard the sound of the lock being turned. "England, don't do this! I'm sorry! England?" His only answer was to hear booted steps fading away down the hallway outside. America slapped the door again in frustration. He put his back to it, sliding to sit on the floor. Panting, the teen winced as he inched up the sleeve of his jacket to examine the blossom of bruises that ringed his wrist, standing out against the backdrop of his flesh like some ugly rose.

* * *

America was standing in front of the window when the door to his room opened. One of the servants had brought a suit in for him to put on earlier. He'd taken it out of the box, leaving the paper scattered across his bed. The teen had dressed without enthusiasm. He still hadn't bothered securing any of the buttons of the jacket, or lacing his necktie. It fit him perfectly. America just couldn't get comfortable with wearing the outfit. He sighed as he heard the paper rustle, speaking dully to the valet. "It'll be just another minute."

"Another minute is about all the time we have." England said lightly from behind him.

The teen spun around. England was folding all the paper back up into the box, sealing it shut. He had dressed in his best attire. His red coat was neatly pressed, and all the gold that embroidered it looked mended, every frayed thread having been patched. The buttons had been polished enough that they were shining. His cravat was new, linen tucked in rippling folds into his black waistcoat. A blood red ruby was pinned at his throat. America never knew that England even owned such riches – it didn't seem suited to his normal humble garments. Clearly, he was dressed to impress.

America felt horribly underdressed for the occasion. "Ah. I should, um…" He buttoned his waistcoat and jacket over the starched white of his shirt. The solid black of his suit complimented England's attire well, like some extension of the man's clothes – a living accessory. America had not seen the man for two days now. Having him in here, dressed so out of the ordinary, was leaving him at a loss. The teen fussed with his necktie but couldn't get it right.

His hands were pushed aside with gentle swipes as England took over the task for him since America was unable to manage. He stood in front of the teen as he carefully worked the laces together, securing them into a bow with efficient motions. England tugged it straight, looking the teen over with a nod. "There. It'll do. Is your jacket clean?"

"Yes."

"Good, grab it. And make sure you bring your umbrella."

"Of course." America sighed. He had been holding out for some word of apology from England. The man apparently wanted to pretend like nothing had happened instead. Following England out of his room in obedient silence, America took his jacket off its hook in order to slide it on over his suit. He brought his umbrella with him as directed as they went out to the carriage. The teen could not even get excited about seeing London again.

The silence they shared in the carriage on their ride deeper into the city was uncomfortable. America's eyes flitted over the rain-slicked streets outside. England would open his mouth as if to speak then decide against it, stubbornly staring out the opposite window. The trip must have only lasted for a few minutes. To America, it felt like it had stretched on for a lifetime.

They stepped out of the carriage together. England settled his broad hat upon his head, the feathers having been replaced so that every delicate edge floated gracefully. He pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket in order to tug them on, coaxing the leather until it molded to his hands. His hat tilted as he glanced up at America with a murmur. "Stay at my side. Do not stray even for a moment. These other nations are a calculating bunch – let me do all the talking. If you must speak, try not to say anything silly. And be on your best behavior. Remember that this is your debut as a colony, America. These nations intend to take measure of you and judge what you are worth. Do _not_ disappoint me."

"That's funny. I was under the impression that I already had." America said with false sweetness. He went ahead of England in order to open the door to the large palatial building that was their destination and the scene of this meeting. England stared after the teen with a blink then moved to walk inside ahead of him.

America regretted ever coming to London. England had not given him any instructions on what to expect out of this meeting. It wasn't difficult to puzzle out early on. He stood at England's side with a polite smile. The nations would come up and speak to England, exchanging words in a mockery of conversation while they measured each other's weaknesses and strengths. A few of them actually tried to start speaking to America on occasion though it took them a while to even notice that we was there. Finland, for example, had greeted the colony with considerable warmth. He'd been lured away by Sweden before he could get too wrapped up in speaking. France caught America's gaze from across the room and winked knowingly at the teen, causing him to blush as he recalled the nation's actions a few days ago. France remembered them just as vividly; the man made it a point to avoid coming anywhere near England the entire time.

There were many others who avoided England. America had seen quite a number of hostile glances at his caretaker amongst the many faces. He had not known how many enemies England really had until now – nor had he known how hard the nation had worked to earn their hatred. Other nations were curious about him. A brown-haired man with a bright smile and an odd curl in his hair came over to shake America's hand. He began to talk rapidly about cuisine and art, something that America was very much interested in. When he started to contribute to the subject, England's hand landed on his shoulder. England smiled mildly at the other nation. "Feliciano – your brother appears to be looking for you. He seems angry."

That caused the brown-haired man to start looking around him fearfully. He stammered a vague excuse and hurried away. America watched him go before sullenly speaking to the man beside him. "What was wrong with him talking about his homeland? I wanted to learn more about him."

"You're not here to learn. There is nothing for you to take away from these nations. You are merely a colony – my colony." England told him. His hand remained on America's shoulder. When a rather loud man with pale hair and red eyes drifted close to their location, England's touch shifted. A gloved hand ran across the length of the teen's shoulders in a covetous manner, fingers curling possessively on the opposite side as England drew America tighter to his side. The teen witnessed the silent exchange, able to read what radiated from England's penetrating stare to anyone that dared look at America too long. _Mine. Back off._

America felt a hollow pit open up in his stomach. England's purpose for bringing him here crashed through his mind with a sudden tumult. He was not here because of who he was. He was not here to represent his homeland. England had brought him here because America was a trophy, a worthwhile possession to flaunt before his enemies and allies. It had crossed his mind back at the house and now he knew it to be true – he was another lovely decoration for England to sport, another feather in his hat. America felt himself drowning in the heady revelation, the teen swaying unsteadily.

England spared him a sidelong look. He was absorbed in a conversation with a tall, severe looking blond. England's eyebrows drew together. "Is something wrong, America?"

"No." America felt his heart coming apart in his chest. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream in England's face. He wanted to run. He wanted to go home.

All that he could was smile. "Nothing. Nothing at all."


	2. Chapter 2

I am hoping to include as many nations as possible over the course of these installments. Some of them have a strong fanbase, so I hope that I portray them well enough to please everyone. These are being based around important events in American history - give or take a few years prior or past. Historical facts will be mentioned at the end. I hope that you enjoy!

* * *

_World Conference – 1778_

America hurried through the corridors at a run, the fabric of his blue military jacket flapping. It was his first visit to the conference after declaring his independence. While a few nations argued that America did not yet qualify as a nation (mainly England), the majority had decided that he would be recognized until the Revolution made the final victor known. Unfortunately, he had no real experience doing this on his own. So far it had been a disastrous debut.

His ship had been delayed due to bad weather. They had to redirect their course to avoid a squall. America spent the entire trip in his cabin, seasick. He'd been unable to relax since leaving his homeland. There was still a war going on. It was a battle for _his_ freedom, and here he was on his way to a meeting in Europe. He would never have come if not for Washington's persistent urgings. They needed to build strong diplomatic relations if they were going to have any hope of overthrowing British rule.

There had been no carriages waiting at the dock. He'd had to wait. Giving directions to the driver had been hard, since America himself didn't really know where in France he was supposed to go. He told the driver the address and hoped for the best. Now he had missed the first day of the conference, and was late for the start of the second. His first impression was a failure.

Voices were buzzing behind a set of doors. Judging by the chaotic volume of the overlapping arguments, he'd reached the right place. America smoothed his hair down, straightening his uniform so that he looked presentable and not like he'd just run three whole blocks to get there. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly in order to build up the courage that he needed. Washington was not here to advise him on what to do. He was a nation now. He had to have the strength to speak his own mind as a representative of himself and his people.

America pulled open the door, quietly stepping inside. No one even noticed his arrival yet. They were squabbling at each other across a long table. It wasn't until he pulled the door shut behind him and approached their gathering that some of them caught sight of him. America grew uncomfortable as their arguments fell silent, a stunned hush settling over the assembly. Several pairs of eyes turned his way and pinned the young man in place. He spread his hands out apologetically. "S-sorry that I'm so late. The Atlantic hasn't been very kind to me lately."

One particular stare was drilling into him. America pointedly ignored that portion of the table. He was ready to face these foreign nations, sure, but he wasn't yet ready to face the one he knew all too well. America felt some relief when the severe looking man he recalled from his visit to London's conference stood up to greet him, extending a hand. "We are glad to have you, late arrival aside. Welcome to the table, America. I am Germany – please, take a seat. I believe that a spot was saved in anticipation of your arrival."

"Really? That was so thoughtful." America's smile was full of sincere pleasure. He located his empty space at the table. Thankfully, it was far enough away that he could avoid the awkward confrontation with England. The young man skirted along behind a few occupied chairs. He ended up sitting between a nation that was fast asleep and the friendly brown-haired man that he had spoken to years ago.

Northern Italy recognized him right away. He beamed at the young America, clasping the man's hand in both of his as he pumped it vigorously. "Ahhh, America! It's Italy again – do you remember me?"

"Of course. The man with the pasta and the art, right?" America asked warmly. The other nation's enthusiasm was hard to resist. "You know I did some research when I returned home about your artistic culture. I'd be interested to hear more about it after the meeting, if you have some time."

"Oh! Oh! I would be happy to make time to talk to you about it, Americaaaa!"

At the head of the table, Germany cleared his throat. That managed to quiet the Italian down. America noticed that another nation that looked remarkably like Northern Italy was glowering at him from the opposite side of his cheerful doppelganger. That was… Southern Italy? He forced a taut smile back at that sour face, before shifting his eyes to Germany as the towering nation began to speak again.

Their topic of discussion involved something in the eastern part of Europe. Some nations were fighting others – that sounded like a familiar story. Yet America was surprised to hear how many skirmishes were going on throughout Europe. It sounded like they really enjoyed fighting. The main concern was not that there were fights taking place – apparently that was business as usual in Europe – but the fact that trade routes were being compromised and inconveniencing other nations.

America did his best to pay attention. There were probably valuable bits of information to take back with him involving the affairs of the Old World. As it progressed on, though, with only a few protests from warring nations, America's attention began to stray because as hard as he tried to ignore it, he couldn't shake the weight of that stare. America tried to memorize the pattern of the wood on the tabletop. He recited the Declaration, word for word, in his head. Then the nation on his other side let out a loud snore that made him jump. America gave him a look of concern, his eyes shifted slightly, and he was ensnared.

England's green eyes refused to waver. He was paying no more attention to Germany's words than America had been. England was dressed in his red military uniform, the same as America. The other man's face was unreadable. America stared back at him without judgment. He had not come here for a confrontation with England. They weren't on opposite sides of the battlefield right now – just on opposite sides of a table, in a forum where fighting would have come with severe sanctions against both their nations.

He had not seen England in person since the formal declaration of war two years ago. England had not changed in the slightest. America, however, had grown that much taller, larger, shaking the last shadows of childhood to become the young man that he was now. He would face his rival like a man. England's troops had been giving his patriots a brutal fight so far – but America was disinclined to show him the slightest trace of concern. It surprised him when England's eyes retreated first. America's gaze lingered on him just a little longer, then returned to the head of the table.

After an hour with little progress, they were given a break for lunch. America stood up from his chair, stretching his limbs out. His muscles were sore. He would have dismissed it as a result of having been in his seat for so long, but America knew better. There was a war happening on his soil. His hand twitched; the muscles in his palm had begun to spasm a few minutes ago, quite beyond his control. America brought it up in front of him to watch the subtle movements under his skin. It was fascinating, and disturbing. This is what he was to expect? It was better than some of the worse pains he'd suffered since the war had started.

Someone approached him and America looked up in alarm, expecting to see England seek him out. He wasn't terribly relieved to see that it was France. Still, he did owe the other nation some courtesy. "Ah. Um, _bon-bonjour_, France."

France laughed at his attempt to speak the language. "Your accent is atrocious, _mon ami_. A good try, though!" France fit an arm around America's shoulders, the younger nation being guided along through the crowd by the pressure of France's embrace. It was leading him further away from England, who he caught a glimpse of and indeed looked like he intended to try to catch up to the young man. France's presence acted as a deterrent. England launched into conversation with a startled masked man instead. As they reached the door, France whispered into his ear. "It seems that we have shaken your shadow for now. What would you say to sharing lunch with your big brother France, hm?"

"Well, I can't say that I have any other plans." America admitted. "I haven't even checked into my room yet. It's been… it's been a trying time."

"Not just your trip, I would imagine." France said sympathetically. He let his arm drop from around America's shoulders, pressing a hand to the small of the younger nation's back instead to steer him in the right direction. "Though I am curious: How did you like the gifts we sent over?"

"Gifts?" The question confused America. "Oh! The…_gifts_. Yes, they've been very helpful. I just wish that our mutual _acquaintance_ would stop ruining them." France had been referring to the secretly supplied donations the nation had provided to America for the war with Britain. The ships, money and men had been a needed blessing. However, the British forces had cut through most of those already just two years in.

France nodded absently. "_Oui_. You know, I did have a thought about that. Your big brother France decided that there was more that he wanted to do for you, America. England has been causing many problems for me lately – as well as problems for a few others. Now that you are here, I thought that it would be a good time to introduce you to a couple of my friends. It just so happens that we will be having lunch together and here I am conveniently inviting you to attend."

"I am here conveniently accepting your invitation." America chuckled quietly. He was curious to know what friends France was referencing. The young man gave himself over to France's lead completely. This was precisely what he had come to the conference to do. If he could persuade more allies to join his cause then he would be one step closer to earning a victory and his freedom.

They entered into an adjoining chamber. This was clearly intended to host the nations during their lunch break. Several tables were scattered throughout the area, dressed in crisp white cloths, silverware glinting beside delicate porcelain plates. It was meant to display the finery of France, which served its purpose as far as America was concerned. He didn't feel free to touch anything. As he passed close to the tables, America's eyes were dazzled. It looked like some kind of royal banquet – and here he was, feeling self-conscious in his humble military uniform.

France sensed that the younger nation was a little overwhelmed. "Do you like it, America? We tend to live like kings here in my country. The art of a fine meal is how well it's been dressed. Naturally, as I am the host, and you are my guest, we have the best table reserved."

Attendants were waiting on hand as France brought him to a table towards the corner of the chamber. It was elevated from the rest of the room so that they had to take a step up onto the landing. A delicate fence acted as a barrier to separate the table from all the others, providing an illusion of privacy. There were several more places to sit than the ones they had passed. France was clapping lightly with a flutter of lace. "Come, come. Wine for my American friend, _s'il vous plait._" He gestured for America to sit.

France flipped back the tails of his long jacket as he sat, scooting up close to the table so that he could fold his elbows on it. He smiled as America opted to take the chair beside him. The young nation looked at the older with uncertainty. "Are we… really allowed to drink here? I thought that this was meant to be a business affair."

"My dear America," France responded with a laugh in his voice, "some of the best business ventures that have ever been conducted have been between men who were too full of wine to care what they traded and too drunk to remember what they'd lost. I never talk business without at least one glass in me first."

"That seems…rather irresponsible." The young man murmured as one of the attendants began to pour him red wine out of an aged bottle.

Those words made France throw his head back in a powerful laugh. It shook his entire body, a hand slapping lightly on the table in his amusement. He recovered himself, the laughter eroding away into light little chuckles as France wiped at the corners of both eyes. "Ah, America. I forget sometimes that that British snob raised you. That disapproval sounded so very much like him. You are too adorable."

"Eh, France? What's the joke that's got you braying over here?" A new voice entered their conversation, gravelly and full of arrogance.

America saw that another nation was joining them at the table. He was dressed in a dark uniform that had several layers of fabric cloaking his body. The man plucked his hat off his head and handed it to a waiting attendant on France's other side. As he began to unbuckle the heavy cloak from around his shoulders, red eyes were appraising America with only mild interest. America had seen this man, briefly, before. It was kind of hard to forget this fellow – his strange appearance was quite memorable. He gave his cloak over to the waiting attendant and dragged out a chair without removing his eyes from the young nation.

America wondered if the man were going to eat him. He looked on the feral side. America forced himself to smile politely back as France introduced them. "Prussia, so good of you to join us! You have not met our young friend America, have you?"

"England's upstart, right?" The albino sneered. It looked natural on his face. "I heard a rumor that one of that pest's colonies were acting up. So this is the one, huh?" He looked America over, clearly unimpressed. "Have you ever fought in a war before, boy?"

Trying not to bristle at being called 'boy', America shook his head. "No, not on my own. England led efforts for a few skirmishes on my land. This is the first that I've ever done this on… such a scale." His eyes dropped to the table. "Though I have studied quite a bit about warfare and how to fight."

"Studied?" Prussia's face split in half as he unleashed a loud laugh that traveled clear across the chamber. America must have been pretty amusing today – he was causing everyone to laugh. His smile turned into more of a grimace as he watched Prussia slap a knee. "Oh, that's rich. That's _rich_! So the idiots in your homeland have decided that their best chance for victory lies with a _bookworm_? Against the _British_ _Empire_? Now I see why France was laughing."

"America is a smart young man." France chided the other nation in America's defense. "He has considerable potential. I think we are fortunate that England's influence did not ruin him entirely. It is my opinion that we can expect great things from young America." France smiled encouragingly at the young man.

"Eh." Prussia remained unconvinced. His head jerked aside as one of the attendant's began to fill a glass of wine for him. "What is this? I don't drink your silly piss water! Get me beer. Beer!"

"Beer!" Another nation bellowed in echo, as a man with wild yellow hair pulled himself up onto their level. He clasped the gloved hand that Prussia held out to him, the two of them slapping their shoulders companionably together. The man nodded at America as he dropped in beside Prussia. "Hello, I'm Holland! You are America, right? Everyone is talking about you like some shiny new treasure. No surprise that France has swooped in to collect you." He made a teasing face at France.

France gave him a bland stare in return. "I forget why it was that I invited you."

"You invited me because I wouldn't take no for an answer." Holland said happily. He twisted back and forth in his chair, searching the tables behind them. "You _do_ have beer here, right, France?"

"_Oui_. They will bring your nasty alcohol out soon, _mes amis_." France shook his head. "Though I still do not understand why you insist on imbibing that filthy stuff. It is so inelegant compared to the beauty of a glass of red wine." He demonstrated by lifting his wine glass, swirling the contents with an expert spin.

"So sorry that our superior tastes offend your delicate French sensibilities." Prussia grated with a smirk. A gloved hand spread its fingers out. "Perhaps when you sissy girls finally grow a pair then you'll be able to appreciate a real man's drink one day."

Holland prodded Prussia with his elbow. "Careful, Prussia, or else he might decide to stick something delicate and French in your rear later."

"Only if he desires castration." Prussia muttered darkly. He tapped a finger on his butter knife as a not so subtle warning.

America found himself with nothing to say as he listened to them banter back and forth. He'd been operating under the assumption that these nations were all friends. Now, after listening to them exchanging these barbs at each other, he was no longer confident. France hadn't brought him into the middle of some hostile skirmish, had he?

Another man came to fill the last spot at the table. His steps were sluggish, as if he'd just come from some laborious chore. He was slightly darker skinned than the others - clearly he had spent much more time in the sun. Pulling out the last seat, he dropped gracelessly on it. He didn't even bother to scoot it in before lowering his head to thump down on top of the table. "_Mi amigos_, shoot me now, _por favore_."

Prussia snorted. "Problems with the brat again? I don't see why you haven't just murdered him. If I had to put up with him as much as you, I would have already killed him, stuffed him, and mounted him above my fireplace."

"Romano is… is just unhappy with rooming arrangements, is all." The slumped man lamented. "He does not like that I will be sharing a room with him; he'd rather it were Feliciano. But Feliciano has already settled with Hungary and refuses to trade."

Holland patted him consolingly on the back. "Spain, you poor, poor fool. You really need to cut the apron strings with him, my friend."

"I have no illusions about Romano!" Spain whined as he lifted his head. His complaints ended as he discovered that America was sitting amongst their group. He looked embarrassed, rubbing at the back of his head. "Ah, s-sorry about that. I did not know that we had new company."

France gestured between the two of them. "Spain, this is America. America, this is Spain. He is afflicted with a disease that makes him unable to avoid worrying about South Italy for more than an hour at a time."

"That's a lie. I worry about plenty of other things, too." Spain protested. He stood up from his seat, offering America his hand across the table. "_Hola_, America – it is a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh at last. I have been to your home many times but never got the chance to see you for myself."

"Really? I had no idea that you'd visited." America said lightly. Spain had been to his homeland and he hadn't known about it? That was yet another tidbit of information that was kept away from him over the years. Interesting. "Next time you're in the area, you should come and visit me at my house. I live up north."

They sat back down. Spain didn't complain when his glass was full of wine. Apparently he didn't have the selective tastes of Prussia and Holland. America saw that those two were downing their mugs of beer with impressive speed, racing to the bottom. Prussia thumped his mug to the table first, belching low in his throat. He held the empty mug up to the attendant. "Get us another one. Better yet, just bring the keg and we'll help ourselves."

"Here, here. Holland seconds the motion for importing the keg to our table." Holland said with a grin. "All those opposed can kiss my salty ass." He laughed as Prussia clinked their empty mugs together in agreement.

America smiled. Perhaps his assessment about them being enemies had been incorrect. The four nations had fallen into an easy pattern of interaction; clearly they were used to each other. As he listened more closely to their insults, he could tell that these were nothing more than good-natured ribbings. It was not so different from the men on the battlefield testing each other with insults and sharp retorts – this type of exchange was all part of social interaction.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen!" France said loudly, tapping the side of his fork against his glass to draw their attention. "You may indulge in my hospitality as much as you desire. In the meanwhile, however, we have gathered at this table for a reason, _non_? I believe that I was clear in my letters precisely what the purpose of our luncheon entailed?"

"_Si_." Spain nodded. His green eyes danced with a wicked glint as he hit a fist into his opposite palm. "Our chance for payback, no?"

France nodded. America didn't seem to know what Spain meant with his words, so France leaned in towards the younger man, placing a hand on the back of his chair. "America, I must make a small confession: My reasons for inviting you here are selfish. Though your company is an inarguable pleasure, my interests are entirely self-involved." His other hand gestured around the table. "I asked these nations to join us because they, like myself, also have mutual interests. Our nations rely heavily upon trade. For many years now, we have suffered because our ability to trade has been impeded by a constant nuisance – the British Empire. The Atlantic has become impossible to navigate."

He sighed. "Our attempts at diplomacy have been ignored. That little snot takes delight in making our lives miserable. Spain has been inconvenienced, Holland has been inconvenienced, I have been inconvenienced, and Prussia—" France frowned. "Wait. Prussia, _mon ami_, why _are_ you here?"

"I just don't like the guy." Prussia shrugged as if that explained everything. "He bugs me."

"Hm. Right." France let that one go as he smiled back towards America. "My point, America, is that your fight for independence is actually an ideal opportunity for us. If British rule is overthrown from your land, then the empire's foothold is removed from the breadth of the Atlantic. We will gain a considerable advantage if you emerge from this battle as a free nation."

America's eyes slowly widened. Were they offering what he thought they were offering? He wet his lips as his gaze touched upon each nation. "Are you saying that you'll…?"

France lifted his glass of wine. "A toast to belligerency, anyone?"

Spain raised his own glass with a small smile. "Belligerency."

Picking up his mug, Holland toasted with a wink. "Belligerency."

Prussia was too busy chugging his beer to bother removing it from his mouth. He just bobbed his head up and down in agreement.

France indicated the glass of wine in front of him and America quickly moving to pick it up. He was full of a giddy happiness as relief filled his heart. He had come here wanting to appeal for aid, and now it had fallen into his lap with more abundance than he could ever hope for. His eyes were brightly shining as France clinked their glasses together, the older nation purring happily. "Belligerency."

They all took a drink to seal their agreement. The wine was bitter, so much so that America nearly recoiled at the taste. He drank it down like a liquid promise and on the back of his tongue the lingering flavor was sweet.

France set his glass back down. "Good. Then it's decided." He snapped his fingers to call over an attendant, whispering into the man's ear. The fellow nodded and went to fulfill some request. He returned shortly with parchment, ink and quill, placing them down in front of France. With a smile, France jotted a few words down on it. Satisfied, he folded the parchment twice and held it up to another attendant. "Deliver this for me, would you? He sticks out like a sore thumb in that damned coat of his, so I doubt you could miss him."

America watched as the attendant left. "Wait. Was that meant for England? What did you write?"

"I simply asked him to join us for a few minutes. We will have to wait and see if he accepts my invitation as eagerly as you did." France's smile was subtle but devious. He gave the ink and quill back to another steward, hands clapping together. "Now. Enough of this talk – I am starving! Let us start on some lunch."

Food was being brought out to them on silver platters. The smell alone indicated how good everything would taste. As several dishes were place down on the table in front of them, America found that he didn't recognize any of it. Everything was vibrant, like a painting full of color. Nothing appeared burnt or bland. Even the bread served with their meal looked fresh. His stomach suddenly awoke with a voracious appetite.

The Europeans dug into the food immediately. It seemed that sharing from the same dishes did not bother them. France suggested to America certain items to try when the young man hesitated to choose what he wanted. He settled for taking a little bit of everything, determined to try it all. America couldn't get enough! He'd never felt so hungry before, not in recent memory, and it didn't help that everything tasted so extraordinary. An attendant kept filling his glass of wine each time he emptied it. The taste didn't even bother him any longer.

Time sped by, and America suspected that he was a little drunk. He felt pleasantly warm all over, all the tension that had been holding him rigid bleeding away. It also loosened his tongue. At one point during the meal, Holland fell off of his chair with a push from Prussia. America laughed as he saw the nation clawing his way back up. "You're going to need a saddle if you can't ride that chair bareback, Holland."

Spain spit out a mouthful of wine onto the floor with a snort of laughter, while Prussia swatted the table. The albino doubled over with his laugh until his face went red. "That—that was a good one!" Holland's hand was making a clumsy gesture that America suspected was a form of insult. He memorized it for later use.

France rested his chin on his knuckles, watching them all with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile. He hiccupped. "We are… setting a bad example for America already. Shame on you, _mes amis_."

Their table was undoubtedly the loudest. And the most inebriated. America had his fill of food. He propped his elbows on the table in front of him and rested his face in his hands. France had scooted his chair over and was leaning heavily against the young man, but America couldn't focus his thoughts enough to build up a protest. He tolerated the European's casual onslaught of stray touches and subtle affections for the time being, because he really didn't feel like moving right now. The wine left him feeling good, floating on a wave of contentment.

Though that cradle of good feeling dropped out from under him, plunging him into a pool of ice when his drowsing eyes opened up and found England standing in front of their table.

The man had France's letter crumpled up in a fist, arms crossed in front of him as he gave their table a cold, disgusted study. "We're in the midst of a conference and you lot have the audacity to get drunk in the middle of the day." England's distaste with them subsided as he saw America sitting there in the corner. He was obviously surprised to see the young man among them.

"You finally decided to join us, England." France purred at the other nation. His forearm draped itself on America's shoulder, fingers tracing the threads that wove the young man's blue jacket together as he smirked up at England, enjoying the tension that hardened England's jaw as a result. "We were just discussing some important topics with America here."

"Really? It sounded more to me like you were all sitting here making jackasses of yourselves." England said flatly. "What drunken nonsense were you waffling this time?"

"Oh, you know." France shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. "Things like… freedom. America likes to talk about freedom. And we also talked about… trade routes." France's finger kept sliding that slow pattern across America's shoulder. "Then we spoke about how troublesome sailing on the Atlantic has become."

"Then we started talking about war." Spain said from his place at the table. He danced his fork around his plate, looking up at England with a vague smile.

"I brought up how nice it would be if we didn't have to worry about our ships getting attacked all the time." Holland mumbled, slumped over the table with half his mug of beer gone. Color stretched across the bridge of his nose. He hiccupped.

"And we concluded that you're a pain in the ass." Prussia stated after a rough belch. He eyed his empty mug unhappily.

France nodded in support of Prussia's claim. He slid his arm across the back of America's shoulders to give the silent young man a squeeze. "So, after much discussion and a few glasses of wine, we came to the decision that we want to invest our faith in your former colony. All four of us."

England's face contorted with rage, his voice deadly quiet. "If you think that you can threaten me like this, France, I _will_ call your bluff."

"I am not bluffing, England." France tilted his head to the side and smiled. "France, Spain, Holland and Prussia will be lending their strength to help America win his freedom from British rule. Consider this an informal preview to our formal declaration of war."

* * *

America left the dining chamber to return to the meeting room on his own. His new allies were still indulging in the last of their meal. He, however, did not want to risk being late in returning, since he had already been late to arrive. The wine was still in his system, though he'd ceased drinking it after England had stomped away from their table. The older nation's appearance had caused him to lose his appetite or any desire for anything else to drink. He still felt light all over - not perfectly sober, perhaps, but certainly not drunk.

It did impair his judgment. Otherwise, he would have been wise to remain amongst the circle of his newfound friends. America detected the sound of boots coming up behind him as he walked, that sound echoing his as he was approached. He didn't even have to look to know who it was and guess what was about to happen.

America felt hands closing on the fabric of his jacket, sudden force swinging him until his back hit hard against the wall. The young man winced at the impact, as an arm came up to rest against the top of his chest, effectively pinning him in place. He tried to shove it away, scowling. "Get your hands off me."

"I will do as I like." England growled back. His face was still dark with anger. He had not taken France's proclamation well. America might have been taller now, but England's compact figure was incredibly strong. "You are still under British rule – my rule – and as such you are not allowed to defy me."

America pushed at England's arm again. It wouldn't budge at all. Damn him for flaunting his advantage. "I am not. I am an independent nation. Acknowledge it!"

England scoffed. "Never." He shifted his arm, closing a fist around a handful of America's jacket. The older nation dragged him as if he weighed nothing, England yanking open a door further down the hallway and pushing America through it. America stumbled inside. He had to catch himself against a table when his feet didn't land correctly. Another side effect of the wine he'd so foolishly drank. If he had known that he was going to run into England like this, America wouldn't have touched a drop.

The room was some smaller chamber. Extra chairs were stored here, as well as a few tables. A window across the room faced the sunset, bathing the room in a pale orange hue. England locked the door behind him after he had stepped inside. They stood apart from each other, America sitting heavily on the edge of the table, England with his back against the door. Both men were panting from the struggle it had taken to get them here.

America glared at the nation blocking his path to escape. "Why are you doing this? We have nothing to say to each other."

"That's hardly true, now is it?" England's returned a hard stare.

"Oh? What would you have me say, England? I made myself clear that humid day in July, when my people declared their independence to your precious King. My resolve has not changed – you locking me in here for whatever purpose will not make me waver." America shook his head. England had the chance to hurt him and he certainly had the strength to do so. In fact, when the other walked towards him, America braced himself for the worst. Though he tried to be brave, he found his face turning aside at the last second, eyes squinting shut as he prepared for the strike.

England's arms slid around his neck instead, the warmth of the older man pressing along the front of him as America was pulled into an embrace so tight that it stole his breath away. His fingers curled over the lip of the table he leant against, flexing to dig his nails into the wood as he popped his eyes open. He had expected England's violence. He had not expected this.

Soon, England's head buried into his shoulder, as fine hairs tickled against America's throat. He squeezed the other man again, a desperation there that America could not believe as he heard his former caretaker whisper near his ear. "It's been two years. Two long bloody years without seeing you even once. You disappeared without giving me any clue as to where you'd gone."

"We're in the middle of a war. It didn't seem right to send you letters." America answered dazedly. He couldn't figure out what to do with this unforeseen action. His arms refused to move from his sides, so America just sat there stiffly and allowed the embrace.

"You could have at least had the courtesy to send a note. Anything to let me know that you were all right."

"Your troops are burning me in places, England. How could you expect that I'd be well?" America shook his head, marveling at the concern in the other man's voice.

England pulled back from him a little, hands fitting to either side of America's arms. "It's war, America. Your injuries are to be expected. They'll heal, though. They always do." He was looking the younger man over, absorbing every detail that had changed over the past two years. England smiled faintly. "Just look at you. You've sprouted up yet again. Are you ever going to stop growing?"

"I don't know." America was skeptical of his behavior. "What is it that you want from me?"

"That should be obvious." England said quietly, that absent smile still in place as he brushed his fingers across America's shoulders to smooth out the wrinkles in the fabric. He followed his work with his eyes until he was satisfied. They rose up to meet America's. "I want you to come home."

"Impossible."

"It isn't. Not really." England shook his head, charming and persuasive as he adjusted the left sash of America's uniform so that it was straight. "True, you have stirred up quite a lot of trouble. It will take much work on my part to smooth over, but in a few years, with some clever political maneuvering, it will be like it never even happened. I can convince the King to grant your people clemency. Naturally, you were unaware of what you were doing. Every child goes through a rebellious phase – I know that I did."

America grimaced. "It's not a phase, England. I'm not even a child any longer. My childhood was torn from me the day I took up my rifle and shot another person dead. I am saddled with the responsibilities and regrets of a man now."

"Fine. Fine. You are a man, then." England murmured. "I will accept that you are an adult. Is that what you wish to hear? You are a man now, America. If fighting as men do pleases you so, I promise that I will take you with me into my battles so that you may have your fill. I will treat you as a man is treated. Just… come home, and I will give you whatever you want!"

"What if all that I want is my freedom?" America asked, searching his face.

"Anything but that." England took hold of his wrists, prying his hands away from the desk. He carried America's hands up and pressed the young man's palms against his face, holding them to the warmth of his cheeks. His eyes were marked with intensity. "You don't need the world, America. Take it from me – nothing good comes from the world outside of your borders. You have no need to bring that trouble upon yourself. You have me – _we_ have _each other_ – and that is all that you could ever need."

"Is this because of France and the others? Is that why you are appealing to me like this?" America narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

England shook his head. "No. Though it galls me that you would surround yourself with such company, their involvement plays no part in this. At this point, they will mobilize too late to be of any use to the cause." He squeezed America's hands in his. "You are on the verge of losing, America. Your forces will fall – it is only a matter of time. My troops have already smashed through their defenses; there is no chance for hope. If you convince them to surrender now then it will be easier for me to fix this entire mess. Then you and I can move on and put this fiasco behind us."

It was obvious that England completely believed what he was saying. He was confident in the result, expecting America's defeat. America thought back to Washington's warnings to him, the desperate tension that hung in the air, knowing that they were on the precipice of failure. England might very well have been right. Still…

"Maybe there is no chance for us to win." America said softly. "You could be correct in saying so. We might very well lose this war. I won't deny that possibility." He drew himself up off the table so that he was standing at his full height, determined eyes angled down at England. "Regardless, I will keep my faith in my people, that we will see this through until the end and that we will be free."

England dropped his hands with a snort, partially turning away. "You're a bloody fool."

"I won't argue with that either." America's hands hovered in the air, one of them finally landing on England's chest so that he could push the older nation away. He stepped past England on his way to the door only to find his wrist being captured.

England held him in place with a frown. His gaze was troubled, pleading. "America, please. Don't do this. We're brothers, aren't we? Brothers shouldn't fight like this."

America stared at the hand on his arm. "That's not true. You might have called me that in order to sway my affection, but we both know that we were never truly brothers. I was the possession and you were the master no matter how much we wanted to pretend otherwise. What we had, all of it, it was just a pretty dream."

"Is that your opinion?" England cocked his head to the side. "That we are not brothers? There is nothing between us but the reality that you are my colony and I am your sovereign nation?"

"You were. You aren't now. I'll soon dissolve even that connection."

"A rather cruel way to sever our ties, America." England frowned. America winced as his grip tightened, that hidden strength utilized to control him as England's hand began to twist his arm in that vice. Pain lanced through the length of it, clear up into his shoulder, so that he had no choice but to turn his body with it or suffer. He growled in his throat as he was forced to settle on one knee in front of England.

His anger was ignored. England's eyes viewed him with detachment as he held America captive in that hold. The older nation's other hand lifted to take hold of his chin, cradling it in his palm as he studied America's enraged face. "If you consider yourself as nothing more than my property, then I am more at liberty than I thought…"

As America was puzzling that over, England inched his face up higher and coated the young man's mouth with his. America jumped as though burnt and tried to withdraw; England held him steadfastly into the kiss. His lips were dry but soft as they danced over America's mouth with a gentle, invasive pressure. It wasn't the calculating, playful kiss that France had given him years ago – this kiss meant something deep, something powerful. England poured something out through every stroke of his warm mouth, coaxing patiently until he felt the faint response of America's lips.

It prompted him to explore deeper, his thumb sweeping up from America's chin to dent the corner of the young man's lips. He probed that same corner with the tip of his tongue and earned a muffled gasp. England leapt upon the chance to invade that open mouth, dipping his tongue within to taste what flavors lingered. There was spice and wine and honey – he was practically feeding on America's mouth. As the kiss continued, England relaxed into it, letting it absorb him. He made a low sound of pleasure in his throat. That noise cued America – England's guard was down.

With both hands in front of him, America struck England hard in the chest, using the strength he contained but never employed lightly. It sent the man stumbling backwards, England grasping at the air to try and keep his balance, though he had nothing to catch himself as he crashed into a few nearby chairs, falling to the floor. America stood up quickly, chest heaving as he stared across the room at the other nation. He swiped at his mouth, lips still tingling and tongue stained by the flavor of tea. His face was scarlet clear to his hairline, though America told himself that it was as much from anger as it had been a result of that kiss.

"Never touch me again. Keep your distance – your affection, sir, is quite unwelcome." America spat out.

England untangled himself from the furniture, gingerly picking himself up from the floor. He seemed unsure, as if surprised by his own actions. His hand stretched out as America hurried towards the door. "Wait!"

"No. I won't." America turned the lock and opened the door. He didn't know much about hatred but he did his best to try projecting it on his face as he glared at England. "You need to accept the truth. We are not brothers – we are not even allies. We are two nations on opposite sides of a war. I don't want your affection. I don't want your counsel. England – I simply don't want you. The sooner that you come to terms with that, the better."

America did not wait for a response. He did not even check to see what affect his words had on England. All he did was walk out the door, leaving the other nation behind as he fled to the safety of the others.

* * *

The meeting reconvened once enough nations had returned from lunch. Not all of them had come back – America noted that Holland was nowhere to be seen, while France and Spain trickled in after new discussions had already started. They appeared to have sobered up a little in the interim. France winked at him as he sauntered to his seat. America fanned his fingers in a wave, fighting to keep his attention on the nation that was currently speaking – a female, which was apparently rare in an otherwise male-dominated world of nations.

She was talking about agriculture. That was a topic of interest that America could appreciate. Agriculture was an important part of his own country's infrastructure, an industry that was growing daily. When she was finally finished, America heard a few bored coughs from around the table. Apparently it wasn't exciting enough for everyone here. The young man's eyes followed her as she walked back to her seat so that he could remember her face for later. Undoubtedly, she would have been an excellent source for information, perhaps with some suggestions to improve his operations at home.

When she walked by England, America took a moment to regard the other nation. He no longer stared at him from his spot. His attention was fixed upon a few sheets of parchment in front of him, England occupied with writing row after row, a lean arm curved around his work to keep his masked neighbor from viewing the contents. America wondered what he was writing. He'd seen England like this a countless number of times in the past; always working, always busy. At least America could be grateful that England's eyes weren't drilling into his head any longer.

What was that business in the other room? Why had England kissed him? America touched his mouth with the tips of his fingers, recalling the tingling sensation that had clung to his lips after he'd forced England away. His mind treacherously reconstructed every detail of the moment; the shared warmth, the pressure that was both unyielding yet soft, how England's fingers flexed against his jaw – even that exhale of noise that had made America's stomach twist. He felt his face light up with a blush. America shook his head roughly to dislodge the memory, scrubbing at his cheeks with his hands to discourage the color from spreading any further.

He would put it out of his mind. He'd forget that such a thing even happened. It was the only option. If necessary, America would convince himself that it was nothing more than an act intended to manipulate him – easier to accept that than to admit to any other possibilities. He bit down hard on his bottom lip. There. That channeled pain helped to erase some traces of that phantom kiss.

North Italy – Feliciano – was smiling at him admiringly. America smiled back, as the other nation leaned in to whisper. "America sure makes some strange gestures – are they part of your culture?"

"What…?" America arched an eyebrow.

To demonstrate what he meant, Feliciano began to wave his hands vigorously upon his cheeks as he mimicked America's earlier motions. His face tensed up behind them, eyes squeezing shut. America wondered, with a shred of horror, if that was how he had looked during that moment. He averted his eyes. "Oh. Um, no, no it isn't. I just felt a little uneasy and thought that it would calm me down."

"I see." Feliciano nodded, cheeks dimpling with a smile. "I have something like that I do sometimes, too! See, I'll show you." With that, the other man pinched up the plump parts of his cheeks with his fingers. He began to contort the flesh, pulling it in slow circles so that his mouth opened slightly as the movements dragged it along.

America smiled slightly. Outwardly, he was the epitome of polite interest. Internally, he wondered exactly how old the other nation was, because America had never seen anyone older than him behave in such a childlike manner. Feliciano had turned in his seat, showing that comical face to his brother beside him. He made a wail of protest when Romano slapped his hands down from his cheeks with a sigh.

Attendants entered the chamber, rolling in serving carts. America could see that several trays were prepared for tea service, while on the others there were other vessels that weren't quite the same as teacups. He watched as the attendants went down the line while a new nation – Finland, this time – addressed their assembly. England finally tore his attention away from his work to accept the delicate teacup that was presented to him. America had not had tea in quite some time – he'd lost his taste for it after his falling out with England, only drinking it when there was no other option. He blanched as an attendant set one of the delicate porcelain cups in front of him, looking up at the man with a quiet inquiry. "Is there something else to drink?"

Feliciano waved a hand at him breezily. "You should try the coffee, America. It is so good!" The man held up his own rounded cup, inhaling the aroma of the dark liquid within.

America nodded. "I'd like a coffee as well, then. Please?"

The teacup was switched out for the cup of coffee. America stared down at it curiously. It had a strong scent, the liquid darker than the tea that he'd always consumed. There was a handle on the cup similar to that of a teacup, yet the porcelain was thicker. He wrapped his fingers cautiously around the cup and felt intense heat even through its bulk. America took an experimental sip, recoiling as he burnt his tongue. He should have known better. Curling his sore tongue over in his mouth, America set it back down to let it cool longer.

His next attempt went better. He blew on the beverage beforehand before taking in a mouthful of the stuff. It was thicker than tea – the taste was certainly stronger than a weak herbal blend. If tea was a caress to the tongue, this was more like a punch. It was slightly bitter, earthy – and probably the best thing he'd tasted since eating France's food at lunch. America smiled down at the cup balanced in his palms. He'd just found a new substitute for tea.

America's delight with the new discovery was short lived. While he sat there looking into the cup, his hands began to tremble. He blinked as his muscles began to work of their own accord, those tremors increasing in severity until some of the coffee spilt over the edge of the rim and splashed down onto his fingers. It was still hot enough to burn. America winced, hurriedly setting his cup on the table as he shook the heated liquid off his skin.

That burning pain spread anyway. Its source was not from his hand – that scalding ache bubbled at the crook of his left elbow, creeping up the length of his forearm. Both sources of his pain seemed to reach across the gap, merging together so that his entire arm felt like it were on fire. It was sudden agony. America gasped, his arm coming up to fold protectively to his chest, clutching it with his opposite hand to try and ease the pain. The abrupt alarm and discomfort made his entire body jerk, so that he rose from his chair hard enough to send it clattering behind him.

Finland had stopped speaking and was looking at him concernedly. That led several other nations to shift their attention to him as well. He knew that England was watching him over the rim of his teacup. America winced at their attention, apologizing through gritted teeth. "S-sorry. I'm very sorry. Please excuse me."

Clutching at his arm, the young nation edged his way quickly by the seats between him and the door. He shoved the door open with a shoulder so that he could duck out into the hallway. When he was away from the ears of the other nations, America emitted a ragged moan of pain. He began to unbutton his jacket with trembling fingers as he rushed to get it off of him so that he could see what had caused this sudden agony. America clumsily shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall forgotten to the floor of the corridor.

When he finally managed to unbutton the cuff of his white shirt, America started to roll it up. Every brush of the fabric was a fresh stab of pain, the young man sucking in a slow breath through his teeth as he forced himself to continue until the sleeve was rolled up just past his elbow. Night had fallen, so there was no light offered by the windows for him to see by. America walked under a gas lamp mounted on the wall, examining his arm under the spill of its pale illumination.

The flesh of his arm was an ugly red. His skin had bubbled up in places, stark white marks of fluid that had once been pale and unblemished. It looked like he'd poured an entire kettle of scalding tea down his arm. America flexed his fingers, testing the muscles underneath, though that made the pain lance up into his shoulder in protest. The burn wasn't just on the surface – it had penetrated layers of muscle as well.

He looked up quickly when the door to the chamber opened. Prussia came sweeping out in a ripple of dark fabric. America was amazed that he would have been the one to come check up on him. He'd expected France. Prussia came directly in front of the young man. His red eyes dropped to inspect America's arm. A nervous, wavering laugh tore out of America. It was either laugh or cry, and he would have felt uncomfortable doing the latter in front of Prussia. "They've begun burning the land in earnest. I had hoped they were done doing that."

Prussia gave him a searching stare. He was silent, crimson eyes lacking any trace of that drunken humor in them an hour ago. Then his hand swung up without warning and leather-clad fingers pressed their lengths around that burnt flesh with a narrowing of his gaze. America cried out. The pain was nearly enough to make him lose his grasp on consciousness. He swayed as the agony tried to short circuit his senses, widened eyes bulging towards Prussia from this act of senseless harm.

Then Prussia forced him in so that their faces were leaning closer, the man's gravelly voice firm. "Can you take this pain?"

"W-what?" America whispered wildly, his stomach ready to push out everything that he'd eaten for lunch.

"Can you take this pain?" Prussia repeated. His red eyes stabbed into America's. "This is just the beginning. There will be worse than this that awaits you if you truly want to be a nation. They will hurt you all the way to the bone, into the very core of your flesh. Before I consider wasting any more of my precious time, I want to know: Can you take this pain, America?"

Prussia was testing him. The question was jarring. Could he take this pain? America's breaths whistled through his teeth as the pain sought to overwhelm him. Was he willing to make the sacrifice? America knew that he could not lie. If Prussia's warnings were true, then he needed to have the will required to suffer this pain, as well as the strength to survive it. America's heaving breaths began to slow, evening out into a steady rhythm, as he found the resolve to force that pain apart from him until it became a dull ache on the periphery of his senses.

His eyes met Prussia's – really met them this time – and America nodded firmly as an odd calm fell over him. "Yes. Yes, I can take it."

Dropping America's arm, Prussia turned and began walking away. "Then let's go to the infirmary and get that arm bandaged up. It stinks like hell. After that, we leave. I'm bored with this place anyway."

"…What about the rest of the conference?" America asked as he picked his jacket up off the floor and followed behind Prussia.

"Do you want to sit around here and listen to those babies whine about their misfortunes, or do you want to win this war of yours?" Prussia smirked wickedly. "The more time you spend here, the less time I'll have to train your pitiful country bumpkins how to fight worth a damn. That, and we'll need to move quickly to outmaneuver England. Did you see him plotting at the table? Rest assured that he is doing everything in his power to win the war before you even set foot back home."

America's mouth went slack. "Are you telling me that you intend to sail back with me?"

"For now. I might change my mind. It's not like I don't have better things to do. There's a good chance that I will decide not to train your troops when I get there. I might get irritated and burn your house down. I might just kill you and be done with it." Prussia shrugged. "Being unpredictable is part of what makes me so great. Keep that in mind, kid. Now hurry up."

* * *

A/N: During the Revolutionary War, Britain had more or less managed to anger most of the countries who sought to trade on the Atlantic. France had secretly supplied the American colonies with ships, people and funding in an effort to help remove the foothold that Britain had on both sides of the Atlantic.

In 1778, France allied with the American colonies and entered into war against Britain. At this time, Spain and Holland also fought against the British Navy in an effort to open trade routes. Their interference on the Atlantic stage was enough to help keep major parts of the British Navy distracted, which in turn helped with America's victory.

America's soldiers were trained by a Prussian. Before that, many of them knew nothing of fighting up to the standards of the British army.

Of course, this was a portrayal with alterations. I doubt the belligerents decided it over lunch - but they should have!

America's "burning"- Many British generals would burn the fields and villages of places that they conquered after battle. Others thought that it was a barbaric practice.


	3. Chapter 3

Wow! A very big thank you to everyone who has been so encouraging over this work so far! As a reward, I present a rather long installment. I know that some of you are hoping to see specific nations represented here - I intend to work them in as soon as I can. There are just so many major events to handle and I am trying to keep everything in a psuedo-sequence. There are some events in American history that will be left out - I apologize if I don't include a particular one. Drop me a review and I will try to work it in - as a side-piece, if not part of the main work.

There is a half question/half tidbit at the bottom of the Author's Notes after the installment. Let me know what y'all think!

**Warning: **Violence towards the end of the chapter, and an _insinuation_ of adult events involving France and an unhappy America.

* * *

_World Conference, 1790_

America came into the conference room with a folded bundle in his arms. Several nations were already gathered – though he was glad that he had made it on time, putting the fiasco of his last visit to the conference behind him. America smiled to those who acknowledged him, approaching the towering figure of Germany, who was the host nation for the event this time around. "Hello, Germany. How do you do?"

The man blinked at him warily before recognition kicked in. "Ah, America. I am quite well, thank you. We haven't heard from you in quite some time, so forgive me for being surprised to see that you've decided to attend."

"Yes, I have to apologize for my absence. It has been a hectic few years for me. Now that we are official, my people have been working to establish a balanced government. I think we might have finally gotten it right." America held up the bundle in his arms. "I had meant to bring it sooner. It took some time to get it prepared. As I intend to become a more regular fixture at the conferences, I thought it would be appropriate to include it amongst the others." His fingers stroked the stitches lining one of the stars with a reverent caress.

"Of course." Germany said kindly. He waved over a few men, indicating America. "Please post America's flag with the others for display. Find another pole if necessary – and be careful with it, for goodness sake."

America had some resistance with handing it over. He parted from his banner with hesitation, watching with bright eyes as they carried it towards where the flags of the other nations were hung in a colorful display of representation. As they began to attach it to an empty post, America sensed someone coming up beside him. France had found him rather quickly. The older nation followed the line of his gaze to where the men were working, clapping him proudly on the back. "It is such a simple act and yet it means so much, _non_? You have now made your stamp on our little world conference."

"Would it be arrogant of me to confess that I had hoped for more fanfare?" America asked with a half-smile.

France made a show of patting at his clothes. "How unfortunate that I seem to have misplaced my trumpet this morning, America, otherwise I would use it to herald your victory."

America laughed. "My victory was a little while ago, France. I got most of the pomp and circumstance celebrating it out of my system already." He took hold of France's hand, squeezing it warmly. "It is good to see you again, my friend. How many years has it been?"

"I do not think I have seen a glimpse of you since 1783. Seven entire years! Oh, but the time has been quite kind to you, America." France's free hand lifted up, fingers touching the underside of his chin as he turned America's face back and forth to give him a thorough inspection. "It has not been all that long, yet you seem to have matured considerably."

America obediently turned his face in either direction at the man's urging as he responded. "I guess I've had to do some more growing lately. I've been on my own, making important decisions with my people. It was a trying time full of dissent and arguments – finally, they were able to come to an agreement."

France released him with a wry smirk. "Our people can be trying. Believe me, _mon ami_, I know that all too well. Have you checked on your lodgings yet? All of the best rooms go quickly, if you aren't fast." He tossed a few spirals of hair back from his shoulders, preening. "Big brother France would offer to share accommodations with you, but his waiting list is just too long. Everyone wants to share bed quarters with me. Oh ho." His hand curled over in front of his mouth to muffle the laugh.

"As long as I don't get stuck with…you know who, then I don't really care how things turn out." America said lightly, unable to help a smile at France's antics. He had missed the outlandish mannerisms of his strongest European ally.

"He's been a rabid little beast since your victory." France's lips curled with displeasure. "I think you offended his pride more than anything when you beat him, America. He has been stomping around Europe like a tyrant since then like he has something to prove to the rest of us."

"I haven't spoken to him at all." America shrugged lightly. "He refused to speak to me during the signing of the Treaty in Paris. I had the feeling that he would have been 'chuffed' if the gates of hell had opened up and swallowed me. His pride is something, isn't it?"

France chuckled. "Well, you know what they say: The Germans have their order, the French have their vices and the British have their pride."

"That may be true," America agreed with a smile, "though I hope that he'll be able to put it behind us. It happened; now it's long over, and I'd rather be done with the entire affair so that we can move forward."

"You are a young nation full of hope, as ever." France pressed a hand to his shoulder, gesturing towards the door with the other. "If anyone could do it, perhaps it would be you. And here is your chance: Our unhappy friend has arrived."

America looked quickly to the door just in time to see England step through it. Something about him seemed different. It wasn't just the billowing red cloak chained around his shoulders, either. England appeared to have embraced that inner darkness; anger lingered close beneath the man's distant expression, his lips twisted with bitterness. This had been a fledgling manner for him back in Paris and now it seemed that England had used their time apart to perfect it. America noticed that the other nations kept their distance from him as well, as if they were reluctant to draw his attention.

France was retreating from his side. America's brow furrowed as he watched the other nation try to sneak away. "Aren't you going to stay with me while I talk to him?"

"_Non_, America. You can enjoy poking the Lion all you wish, but big brother France will only cheer you on from a distance. Good luck!" France waved at him hurriedly before skirting far down the table.

Why was it that when things were on the verge of turning unpleasant, France always left? America scowled after him as he vanished, then sighed. He could do this alone. It was England, after all, and for all of the strife between them, they were both nations now. There was no reason why they couldn't be civil to one another. America nodded to himself, convinced. He blew out a lengthy breath and made his approach.

America bounded a few steps forward, putting himself in the path of England. He wore his most charming smile. The warmth in his greeting was even sincere, much to his surprise. "Hello, England. It has been a while, hasn't it?"

He steeled himself as England kept walking forward, the smaller nation's head almost running right into his chest. At the last moment, England stopped in his tracks to avoid the collision. He grunted as if America were some obstacle in his path, eyes lifting to focus on the younger nation's face as he growled. "Get the hell out of my way."

Okay. That wasn't the most civil greeting that he'd ever received. America's charm nearly faltered as he saw England stepping around him to continue walking. He twisted to walk alongside him, continuing on as if he hadn't been so easily dismissed. "It looks like you are doing well. I've heard rumors that you've been expanding your territories again. Everyone is calling it the 'second rise of the British Empire'. Your Royal Navy must be massive by now to keep everything organ—"

England whirled around to glare at him, silencing him mid-sentence. "Why are you following me? I have no time for children or half-wits. If you have any business to conduct, sir, than you may petition to do so during the meeting like everyone else. Otherwise, piss off!"

America winced. That had been rather harsh. His smile was nearly non-existent now. "I'm trying to be civil here. The bad times are in the past – I'm sure that we could find a way to move beyond it. We might even be able to become friends. I even thought that I'd ask you to come over and visit me. I've made a few changes to the house these last few years that I think you'd like. I could show them to you over a cup of tea – what do you say, England?" He held his hand out, extending it as an offering of peace.

The other nation made no move to accept it. England's eyes narrowed at him, voice even colder. "Only my brothers are allowed to address me so informally. You will address me by my current proper name, Britannia."

"Fine. Britannia." America amended. He felt his temper start to simmer. He was making every concession here in an effort to repair things and England was throwing it all back in his face. "Will you please come and visit me? I am trying to make peace here." His hand thrust out a little further in emphasis.

Eng—no, _Britannia_'s arm cocked, swinging across his chest as he used the back of his hand to slap that extended one away like it were nothing more than a bothersome insect. "Spare me. I do not want your peace. I want absolutely nothing to do with you." As America was rubbing his stinging palm, England's lips curled into a cruel sneer. "Though, in a way, I suppose I should at least offer my gratitude to you, nuisance that you are."

"Gratitude? Why?" America was angry now, his voice sullen with it.

"If you hadn't left my empire, then I would never have thought to expand it into new regions. I had operated for years under the mistaken assumption that your pathetic little landmass held considerable value to me. Now that my reach has blossomed in new territories, I can look back and see you for what you really were: A nuisance, a heavy weight that held me from seeking my true potential. An eyesore – a dirty rock amongst the jewels in my Crown."

His words pelted America's heart, ripping into it like gunfire. He had anticipated the other nation's anger for their bitter separation. This blatant cruelty, however, was something America would never have expected from the man who had cared for him for so long. America put a hand up to his chest, palm spreading to shield his heart from it. A lump had choked his throat, so he swallowed thickly. "I see. At least now I know, for the very first time, your true feelings."

"I'm glad that we're both in understanding of the matter." England said with false relief. He bent forward to jab the tip of his index finger at America's chest, beside where that clutching hand lay. "While we're clearing up any misunderstandings, let me be frank on another matter: Stay on your side of the ocean. Do nothing that might draw my ire. I was foolishly lenient with your dirty peasants the last time – next time, you will not be spared the full weight of my wrath. Understood?"

America didn't answer. He took a step back out from the other nation's reach, leaving England standing there as the younger nation walked hurriedly out through the door, his strides long enough that it wouldn't be mistaken for running – or so he hoped. The young nation did not stop until he'd reached the end of the corridor, opposite of where the nations were entering, so that he could have some privacy to himself. His hand lowered from his chest, fingers curling over to form a fist in front of him. He wouldn't cry! Giving into tears would be an acknowledgement of that damned British bastard's ability to wound him.

He drove his fist forward, knuckles hitting dully against the wood of the wall. It hurt enough to ground him; if America had learnt anything this last decade, it was the power that pain had as an anchor that would prevent him from getting swept away by the feelings of confusion, doubt, sadness – all those emotions that had been plaguing him endlessly. Withdrawing his fist, he studied the abrasions on his skin as he dropped down onto one of the benches that lined the corridor, beads of blood rising where the flesh had split. America scowled and began to pluck out a splinter. "That bastard. That royal _bastard_."

"I don't see how you could expect anything else."

America glanced beside him to the young man seated on the bench. He was startled to find Canada there – where had he come from? Canada was nestled comfortably, a leg drawn up to his chest, as if he had been sitting there for some time. America's confused expression exasperated him, those eyes so much like his own rolling skyward. "You're the one who sat down beside me – don't try to tell me that you didn't see me here."

"…What are you doing here?" America decided not to confirm his brother's suspicion. It had been so long since he'd seen Canada – a few years before the Revolution. While the changes to America were obvious, Canada's face and figure defied time; from the curl of his hair to the petite frame of his body, Canada had not changed at all.

"Eng-Britannia brought me, naturally." Canada stammered over the name as well. Apparently it was a recent change. "He's been keeping closer observations on his colonies since you decided to go rogue and break away." He watched America dab at the blood on his knuckles, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Stop that. You're just going to smear it everywhere."

They turned towards each other in unison, like mirrored opposites. It had been a natural occurrence in their childhood and it saddened America to see that some of that behavior remained even now. Canada took hold of his hand in order to pull it across his lap, beginning to clean the blood away with the handkerchief crumpled in his grip. America watched him work, frowning. "Are you sure that you should be doing this? I doubt Britannia would approve of you speaking to me, let alone caring for me in such a manner."

"He doesn't notice much of anything that I do." Canada shrugged lightly as he folded the cloth over to continue. "He's too busy to be bothered keeping an eye on us personally. You're the one that I'm more concerned over. Britannia gets angered so easily – memories of the Revolution are still fresh in his mind. If I were you, I would lay low for a while."

"I have no interest in his affairs, or the affairs of Europe." America shook his head. "We have decided that we will keep to ourselves. Washington has told me, several times, that until my people and I solidify the true identity of our nation, we should avoid as much influence from outside our borders as we can."

"That's strange. You mean to tell me that you don't know who you are yet?" Canada snorted, releasing America's hand when he was finished. "Funny, that sounds exactly like you – jumping headfirst into the unknown without the first idea of where you're going to land."

"I guess I think with my heart sometimes rather than my brain." America's mouth twisted wryly. He studied his brother's face at length. "Hey, Canada? You should break free from him too. Then maybe we would be able to see each other again, like we did when we were kids."

Canada let out a long sigh, smiling wistfully. "It would be nice to see you more often. However, unlike you, I have no aspirations for independence right now. I'm content with the way things are."

America scoffed in open disbelief. "That man's a tyrant."

"He's not so bad to me. True, I'm largely ignored, but there could be worse sovereign nations to be ruled by." Canada pursed his lips as he considered the possibilities. "I could be Russia's territory. He's rather frightening."

"I haven't met him."

"You will. It's unavoidable. Be careful around Russia; everyone says that he's not quite right." Canada pushed up to his feet with a sigh. "I should go. Since I'm here as an extension of Britannia's empire, they'll be expecting me to make an appearance."

America nodded, rising as well. He tilted his head to the side. "Okay. I'll let you go, then. Though… really. You should think about it. Being free is not such a bad place to be either."

"Sure, sure." Canada's thin smile was vaguely amused. As America watched, he turned to the side and scooped up a pristine white bear from the floor nearby. In their childhood, America had thought it had been nothing but a toy – a security blanket. He was astonished to find that the bear was indeed a living creature, submitting itself to Canada's arms with a low growl. Canada embraced it to his chest before he lifted his hand in a parting gesture. "Goodbye, America. Remember what I said and please be careful. Stay off the European stage for as long as you can or else you might regret it."

* * *

_World Conference – 1803_

America stood outside the door to France's room, fidgeting nervously. He pressed his back to the wall across from it as he stared at it with uncertainty and – though he wanted to deny it – some fear. In his left hand, America clutched the letter that he'd received from Jefferson earlier on that afternoon. He glanced down to it, eyes skimming over the flowing script once again as he tried to determine if perhaps he had misread it. Sometimes he made mistakes when he did not take the time to fully comprehend the situation around him first. Maybe he had been wrong – Jefferson was usually very precise with his instructions, so America didn't think the man would have misled him.

Napoleon was prepared to make the deal. It was a large purchase, certainly the biggest that they had ever made since their inception. With this expansion of land, America knew that his territory would be greater than ever – they needed this to happen. For the sake of their future, it was vital that they secured the Louisiana Territory. On paper, between common men, it was already cemented and would happen within the month. The only obstacle, the last remaining blockade, was France himself, and his own personal demand. It was an unprecedented loss of land between one nation and another.

France's demand had been short and concise. He agreed to the release of the Louisiana Territory for what he considered a small price: America. More specifically, he wanted a night of intimacy with America. That was what brought him to this point, standing across the hall from the door to France's bedroom, as America tried to decide if he had enough courage to go through with this.

If he were a little older, a little wiser, America probably would have had the foresight to see this coming. The other nation had always been openly affectionate towards him. Though America had always dismissed it as harmless flirtations, because France was that way with everyone else. He had not known that underneath the guise of all that attention there had been attraction, even lust that the older nation felt for him. Now that a perfect opportunity had arisen, France was exploiting his advantage in a manner that would not make him lose face in the eyes of other nations. Since their alliance had fallen apart after America's people began trading with Britain again, he suspected that France's request might have been partially motivated out of spite as well.

America wasn't totally ignorant of the pleasures of the flesh. He'd had some experiences, curious experiments that had led him into a pair of arms or two, both during the war and after. Those had been with women in his country, though. It had been comfortable for him, a natural lesson in the mechanics of pleasure, because he had loved each one of them in his own way. He was connected to them. They had been safe and familiar.

France was going to be an entirely different experience. Not one he was sure he wanted to have. America crinkled the letter tighter in his grip. He couldn't refuse. For the sake of his country, for the sake of his people, for the sake of his future – he could not walk away now when they were relying on him to see this through. America drew in a long breath, holding it in his chest as he reached up both hands, smoothing out his hair and his garments. He could do this. He _would_ do this.

He didn't really have a choice.

America stuffed Jefferson's letter into his pocket, releasing his breath as he came forward. With hesitation still slowing his motions, America rapped his knuckles against the wooden door and then took a step back to wait. He frowned when there was no answer. America raised his hand and knocked a little harder. Perhaps France hadn't heard him? Was he not inside? Leaning in, America pressed his ear to the door. He could hear someone moving around within, a low singing that was unmistakably French. America thinned his lips, annoyed at being ignored, and knocked his fist loudly against the wood this time to be sure that he was heard.

The door to the next room swung open in a spill of light. England took a step out of it into the hallway with an angry glare. "Keep down that bloody racket! Some of us are trying t—" His eyes narrowed as he found America standing there. He immediately demanded, "What the hell are you doing here? Your lodgings are clear across the complex!"

"I'm just—" America was in the middle of responding to him when France's door opened. He wondered if the other nation had been deliberately waiting for England's attention to be drawn. France cocked his arms on the frame of the doorway, body lazily poised. He was already in a state of being half-undressed. His shirt was unlaced enough that a good portion of chest was exposed, eyes roaming caressingly over his guest's figure.

He feigned surprise, as if not expecting to see England bearing witness to his impending conquest. America grit his teeth at the fact that he was being manipulated so blatantly. France blinked over at England. "Oh. Were America's noises disturbing you, Britannia? I hope, then, that you are prepared for a sleepless night, because he and I have yet to even begin the festivities." He winked at America, fingers stretching out to toy with the buttons of America's jacket.

"What perversions are you on about this time, France?" England growled darkly.

"You haven't heard the news?" France laughed lightly as he eased further forward. America tried to push his hands away when France began to start unbuttoning his jacket right there in front of the British nation. "America's people are going to be taking quite a large amount of land off my hands. In exchange, this young man has agreed to entertain my whims this evening."

America looked away from the both of them, cheeks flushed. He felt even more ashamed now that France had decided to broadcast their agreement to another nation – to _that _nation, of all things. "You've hardly left me any other options, France. Just let me in and let's get this over with."

"So unromantic." France slumped as if wounded by his displeasure. He did take a step aside to let the young nation in. America's eyes darted in England's direction before he ducked swiftly into the room. France lingered there in the door, turning more completely to face England. The silent struggle of rage on the other nation's face just increased his satisfaction, a wide smile spreading across France's face. "Don't worry, Britannia. I will try to keep the sounds of our passion to a minimum. _Bonsoir_."

* * *

It was a warm night. The Italian countryside was a comfortable climate, reminding him very much of what it was like back home. Overhead, the moon was clearly defined against the blanket of the night, stars twinkling in a cloudless sky. America wished that he could enjoy it. A night like this deserved appreciation.

Right now, though, he was too preoccupied with vomiting. He'd found a nice private space on the complex where the nations were lodged, a nearby well offering him a barrier to keep him out of sight of anyone passing by. America did not want any of them to see him looking this pathetic.

He had fled out here immediately after leaving France's room. Initially, he had felt nothing about what had taken place, aside from the discomfort and dull ache in unfamiliar locations. Then on the way back to his room, a sudden panic had overwhelmed him and he knew that he was going to be sick. The closest route of escape had been the door taking him out to this place. His legs had been weak, barely supporting his retreat, so he had let them collapse in a fold beneath him. He bent over, arms trembling as he used his palms to keep him upright, while America's stomach expelled everything he'd eaten that day.

Sweat beaded his brow, muscles tensed all over as his sickness gave way to empty heaves, as if his body was not satisfied that it had succeeded in forcing everything out. America slumped back against the jagged stones of the well, a hand curling across his stomach now that it was tensed in a tight knot of pain. He stared at the poor bed of plants that had received and now masked his sickness. His body felt hot all over, feverish. America let his eyes close as his head swam in circles, letting it fall against the support of the stones behind him.

The rope of the well creaked. He heard a faint sound of water trickling. America opened his eyes as a hand lowered a bowl of water to wait in front of his face. He took it with shaking hands, drinking thirstily from the contents without even taking the time to notice who had gave it to him. The water was cold, refreshing as it poured down his throat to cool the burning ache running down his gullet, whispering up to his unknown caregiver. "Th-thank you…"

"You looked like you needed it."

America did not respond to the sound of England's voice. He felt too removed from reality, from this situation that he found himself in. If the nation had come here to get a rise out of America, then he was just going to go away empty handed. America placed the bowl down beside him and wiped a hand across his brow to clear away the sweat. He was too emotionally raw to treat England with his usual cold anger. "I thought I'd be alone out here."

"Rather presumptuous of you to think that you'd have the place to yourself." England answered mildly. He was leaning against the left side of the well, next to where America was slumped, with his back to the younger nation. England did not even spare him a glance as he finished stuffing his pipe with tobacco. He lit it, exhaling a stream of smoke into the air as the silence stretched between them. "I thought it would be rude to smoke inside. It's really only a coincidence that I'm out here at all."

"Oh." America began to force himself up. "I can leave, then. This isn't anywhere close to my room as it is."

"You don't have to leave." England's voice was passionless, expressing nothing. One of his eyebrows lifted with a quick check at the younger nation. "It looks like you wouldn't even be able to make half the trip in your condition. You might as well wait until you're feeling steadier. I doubt the Italian officials would be pleased if they find you collapsed in the middle of the hallway like some hopeless idiot."

America scowled. "If you're just going to stand out here and insult me then I'd rather take the risk."

"Fine. I'll hold my tongue. If you let me smoke in peace, I suppose I could let you anguish in peace." England blew another silvery stream, coiling around his face.

America accepted that compromise, silently settling back down. He wiped his palms up and down the surface of his breeches. They felt soiled somehow. After a few minutes with nothing being said, America finally spoke quietly. "So, Britannia… is what France did tonight a common practice amongst Europeans?"

England snorted as if offended by the question. "What France does is hardly a model that the rest of us would ever wish to be judged by. Though if you are referring to his…arrangement with you, then yes, I suppose that it is common enough. It is just another way to exert power over another nation."

"I see…"

"Next time your government decides to negotiate with Europeans, I'd advise you to remember the price that you paid tonight. We're a ruthless bunch – and our demands are high." England warned him. "I would think you would have remembered it from when you made alliances with the others – those conniving bastards."

"I never did this with any of them. They simply agreed to help me, we shook hands, and that was that. This is the first time that I ever…" He clamped his mouth shut. He'd already admitted too much. Worse yet, he'd already admitted it to England. "Forget it. I'd rather not discuss it with you. It's none of your business."

England's pipe slipped in his grasp, the older nation having to juggle it back under control with a few fast motions. He leaned around the edge of the well to blink down at the top of America's head. "You didn't…? I was under the impression that you had—"

"You were wrong." America shook his head. "Tonight was the first and the last time that I intend to have anything to do with all of you. Washington was right – no good can come from getting wrapped up in the affairs of others. France proved that to me by his actions – by his demands of me. I won't…" He shuddered. "I will _never_ do that again."

"At least you've learnt your lesson." England tapped his pipe out against the stones. He tucked it away inside of his jacket with one last look at America. "I'm off to bed. When you finally do decide to go crawling back to your room, try to do so quietly. I've lost enough sleep already thanks to you and France."

America's mouth twisted. He pulled himself up as the older nation walked away in order to glare at him over the top of the well. "Hey, Britannia!"

The man turned back with an upraised eyebrow. "Yes?"

"This purchase from France is no small matter. Napoleon said it himself – I am going to become powerful now, because of this. My reach is extending further than ever. He hopes that I will grow to be your greatest rival. The world is ready for someone to come along and humble you. So you had better be prepared for it – someday I _will_ become your equal, if not your superior!"

England chuckled. He lifted a hand up in the air, pitching his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "If you truly think you have what it takes, then so be it. I look forward to actually being able to find a _challenge_ out there in the world. Forgive me, though, if I don't hold my breath. I believe I told you once before, America: Do not press your luck." Dropping his hand, England headed for the door inside, speaking over his shoulder. "I'll be waiting, whenever you decide to call."

* * *

_World Conference – 1814_

"Canada? Canada, wait a moment!" America called out to his brother over the heads of the other nations, pressing his way through the crowd as he tried to catch up with Canada. The conference was about to start and everyone was milling inside at the last minute, so it took some effort for him to push through the opposite flow of the crowd. He finally emerged from the other side in time to see the back of Canada's head as the young man stepped outside the main doors.

America ran across that distance and pushed his way outside before they could close completely. "Canada!"

The other man stopped. Canada was dressed in his military uniform, which looked like it had seen some wear and tear from the last two years of battle. He twisted so that his profile showed to America, a blue eye full of accusation landing on the remote figure of his sibling. "…You've got some nerve, following me out here, America."

"I wanted to talk to you. I _have_ to talk to you." America let the doors shut behind him as he approached his brother, youthful features concerned. "You haven't responded to any of the letters that I sent to you."

"Of course I didn't." Canada's eyes narrowed. "I burnt them as soon as they arrived in my hand. Did you think I would bother myself with anything that you had to say?" As America came closer, Canada reached down and unsheathed the knife at his belt. America's steps were brought to a standstill at the sight of the weapon being brandished towards him. "You betrayed me. Betrayed me! I trusted you, America, and what did you do? Sent your people to try and conquer me – to try and defeat your own brother!"

America shook his head in firm denial. He raised his arms, hands lifting to either side of his body to show that he had no intention of bringing any harm upon the other man. "That's not true. Canada, I did not want this. When my people began to talk of how to make Britain listen to their demands, I had no idea that it would come to this – this madness. Since the day I found out what their intentions were I have been working to convince them to stop."

"Why should I believe you? What possible reason would I have to trust anything that you say?" Canada demanded harshly, that knife still pointed menacingly at the taller nation.

"Because we're brothers." America answered, as if it were a statement of fact. "You are my brother, even if Britain controls you, and I would rather see myself destroyed than ever inflict harm upon you. Had you ever bothered to read my letters, you would already know that by now. Canada…you are my other half. We are connected; surely you must feel the truth of my words?"

The knife lowered slightly. Canada was frowning at him, struggling to believe what America was saying. "You might… be telling the truth. Even so, your people have already gone too far. They burnt down York, for God's sake! My Parliament is nothing more than a foundation of ash thanks to your _Americans_." He spat their name out with disgust.

"We'll make it right. I promise." America said quietly. "I only just heard about what happened myself. We can work this out, the two of us, and resolve it quickly – before Britannia gets any deeper involved in our conflict."

"It's too late for that." Canada lowered the knife to hang at his side. "Napoleon was defeated. That was the only thing that was keeping him away from launching a full assault against you. I tried to warn you, didn't I? Now you'll have no choice but to accept the consequences of the actions of your people." His eyes flickered to the space just behind America, face marked by resolute melancholy.

"What are you talking about?" The question had barely left America's mouth before a cloth was brought up in front of it. The strong chemicals overwhelmed and assaulted his senses, his body sagging to the ground as his eyes rolled shut in his head.

Canada sheathed his knife as he watched England step over the fallen figure of America. His red cloak flared out to mask it, that chemical-stained handkerchief being stuffed into a pouch at his belt as England nodded quickly to Canada. "That should keep him unconscious for a while."

Averting his eyes as guilt washed through him, Canada scowled off into the distance. He didn't feel right acting as bait like this to lure his brother out into a vulnerable place. "What are you going to do with him?"

"I don't intend to kill him, if that's what you're asking." England said lightly. He stepped around, sliding his arms underneath America so that he could lift the young man's prone form off the ground. "They'll be expecting me inside. I want you to go in, act as my representative. If anyone asks where America is, well…" He smirked. "Tell them that America got called home for the war. It's a plausible explanation."

"All right. But… please don't hurt him. I don't think he really had anything to do with this." Canada pleaded with the older nation.

England looked up at him as he shifted the weight of America on his shoulder. The young nation was heavier than he looked, that was for certain. "I have no intention of harming him. I don't intend to do anything permanent. He will, however, learn a very important lesson before I'm through with him. That's all you need to know." England waved him hurriedly away. "Now go, Canada. And not a word of this to anyone."

* * *

America flinched as a candle flared to life nearby, eyes assaulted by the sudden light. It had been getting dark in the shack for a while now, though England waited until they'd been nearly swallowed up by it before bothering to provide them any light. The older nation placed the candle down on the table nearby America's chair. "That's better. No need to strain our eyes, is there?"

"You can't keep me here." America told him coldly. He had woken up in the shack hours ago, groggy from whatever method England had used to render him unconscious. The older nation had tied him securely in a chair, arms pinned at his sides so that he could not even work up the strength needed to try and squirm free.

"Ah, but I can." England answered with a smile. He was perched on a stack of crates just opposite of the American, his red cloak spilling down onto all the wood in layers of fabric. His manner was entirely calm. England obviously had no fear of them being discovered at this location, wherever it may have been. He leaned forward, one leg crossing over the other as he laced his fingers together against his upturned knee. "You see - no one is even aware that I have you in the first place. In fact, considering your policy of isolationism, it would be years upon years before anyone even realized that you were missing. They'd just believe that you are ignoring the rest of the world as usual."

"Are you insane? You can't simply kidnap another nation!"

"Why not? I'm good at kidnapping. I did it often during my years of piracy." England shrugged, studying America from his higher spot. "It's your own fault that I had to resort to these measures. I just finished laying waste to France and his tiny, nasty General Napoleon. Now I'll have to travel clear across the ocean to deal with your country bumpkins and yet another annoying war."

"I haven't had anything to do with it. Many of my people don't even want this war to continue! They are acting against my will – how can you say that this is my fault?" America's blazed at him in anger.

England laughed, both at America's declaration of innocence as well as his obvious anger. He jumped down lightly from his perch, cloak sweeping the ground as he walked in a slow circle around America's chair. England folded his arms across his chest as he scrutinized the younger nation. "You really believe that, don't you? That you're somehow not involved in this? Well, allow me to inform you of a fact that has apparently slipped your mind."

Standing behind the chair, England bent forward and slid his arms around America's shoulders. The rope was beneath his hands as he clasped them in front of the younger nation. It was a gesture old yet familiar, mocking the way that America often embraced him in the distant past. His head angled forward so that he could speak low in America's right ear. "We are connected to our people. Our very spirit is wrapped up in their existence, so that we know them as well as we know ourselves. It binds us to them, them to us, and them to each other. Their collective will drives us; conversely, our will can occasionally drive them in return."

America gave him no response, so England continued. He slid his left hand up from the ropes, the tips of his fingers tracing along the slope of America's throat until locating the steady pulse in the young man's neck. England dented the skin above it with his thumb. "The reason why I accuse you of being involved in this is because you have already provided the evidence that would lead me to that conclusion. You said it yourself that most of your people don't want this war. Though you claim that they are acting against your will, I think that it is exactly the opposite. It is _your_ will that drove your people to this end – because you, America, wanted it to happen, didn't you?"

"That's ridiculous." America whispered. His pulse had sped up and he was struggling to get it back under control. England was close, far too close, and the warm presence of the other nation was having effect on his body in unexpected ways. It did not help that England was using his old childhood tricks against him, reminding him that he had once felt something else other than hate towards the other nation.

"Is it? Didn't you once tell Canada that you wanted him to be free? America, I am quite aware that you would do anything within your power to drive all traces of me from that land across the ocean." England was amused at the continued denial. His fingers splayed out, dancing up to the flesh beneath America's chin so that he could cup it gently. He angled the younger man's head further to the side, touching an open-mouthed kiss to the skin above America's pulse. America shuddered in response, though it wasn't in revulsion. England's next words were whispered right there against America's flesh. "You will do anything – even exude your will over your people so that they would go to war in your name, with no real definite purpose. You would even betray your quiet, unassuming brother in the guise of wanting to free him, because you have come to realize that despite the years that have passed, you still have not completely thrown off the shackles that bind you to me."

America shook his head, a low groan rolling through his lips. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open, lids fluttering rapidly. "You're… you're wrong."

"I'm not." England murmured. The tip of his nose nuzzled the curve of America's ear, lips leaving the young man's throat in order to press against the delicate shell, feeding the words directly inside. "No matter how hard you try, no matter how far you run… I am in _every_ part of you. I am in _everything_ that you are. And in that respect, as vehemently as you will always deny it, you will always be _mine_."

England twisted America's face in his direction. America was pliant; he was a young man, with young urges. It was that weakness of the flesh that England had used to soften him with lust. England had played upon it with ease, a familiar instrument, and now when he lowered his mouth to America's he eagerly met it. There was a spark as their mouths fused together, fed by the kindling of England's carefully calculated touches.

America's mouth was hot, the passion in it apparently surprising England. Of course the older nation accepted it without hesitation, his other hand fitting to America's face so that he could hold the younger man in place. England's mouth tasted like salt and tea when America thrust his tongue into their kiss. His brain was unable to function – some distant part of him told him that this was wrong, but the majority of him was in firm agreement that this was the best idea in the world. He groaned in protest when England drew back, his eyes opening up to find those green ones so very, very close to his own. For a few seconds, America thought he caught a glimpse of the old England in their depths, that old softness and tenderness and undying, loyal warmth that was America's and America's alone.

Then England drew back quickly. He took several hasty steps to stand on the other side of the shack. His face was flushed, desire written on his face, though now he was struggling to control it. England turned around so that he was not looking at America, chest heaving as he labored to get his breathing to even out. America stared at him from his chair, his own lust fading to a dawning horror with what he'd just been doing. With _England_. He was tempted to spit but couldn't work up enough saliva since his mouth had suddenly gone so dry.

England roughly cleared his throat. When he did turn back around, he was as composed as ever, looking at America as if he were a nuisance and not someone he had just been quite thoroughly kissing. "An-anyway. The point I was trying to make is that you are indeed at fault here, if only indirectly. Your people have left me no other choice than to intervene. Now that we have finished our war with Napoleon, my Royal Navy will be adjusting its efforts from defense to a full offensive onslaught. As for you…" He pointed at America. "I intend to leave you here. By the time you get free and manage to sail back across the ocean, I'll undoubtedly have already gotten my point across to your people."

"You can't… You aren't just going to leave me tied up here, are you?" America asked incredulously.

"That's precisely my plan." England looked smug. "You're far enough away from the complex that no one will hear you if you call out. Judging by the condition of this shack, I doubt that anyone will discover you here until they need something from it. That could be days, weeks, or even months. Fortunately, you are a nation and not a human, so there's no real worry about you dying of thirst or starvation. You can look at your imprisonment as a form of punishment, if you'd like, for not having enough control over your people." He retrieved his hat from one of the crates, poising it on top of his head. America could only look on with disbelief as England smoothed out his clothes, adjusted the sit of his cloak, and promptly walked out of the shack without offering America anything other than that.

* * *

America ran through the streets of Washington on his way for the heart of it. The entire city was in a state of chaos, fires burning out of control on all sides, bathing the night sky overhead orange. There were still soldiers clashing against each other in some locations. He could hear the sounds of their guns firing, and the sound of swords smashing together below the roar of the flames. His own clothes were already coated in soot. He had just come from the ruins of the White House - the flames had consumed most of it already.

Mrs. Madison had been beside herself with grief. He had taken some time to comfort her while she sobbed, the both of them standing in the shadow of the burning capitol building as the servants packed away the last of the possessions they had been able to save before the British troops had arrived. America had consoled her until James arrived on the scene. He had sent them both on their way, promising that he would find some way to get the city back under control while they stayed safely apart from the danger. He'd kissed Dolly's trembling hands to reassure her, watching their carriage roll away before he'd returned to the city to find the source of this disaster.

America found him as he rounded a corner, coming to a stop around Second Avenue. He hadn't been able to find a rifle, so America had taken a sword that a soldier had been able to spare him on his way to the fray. He doubled over, the smoke in the air thinning the good air out, so that his breathlessness from running all the way here was that much harder to recover from. America gathered enough of his breath to shout across the sounds of battle. "Britannia!"

England's head whipped around at the sound of his voice. His face was tense with concentration and splashed with American blood; the distraction America gave him making one of the soldiers feel brave enough to charge at him. England caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, steel flashing through the air as his sword cut across the front of the man's torso. It opened the soldier up in a spray of blood. England stepped smoothly aside as the soldier's jerking body fell to the ground. He stared across the distance at America, blood and sweat dripping down his face. Slowly, he smiled. "I was curious when you'd finally show up."

Another militiaman came for him from behind, lifting his rifle to point at England's back. The blond spun around and sank to a knee just as the soldier fired off a shot. It whizzed harmlessly past his head as England's sword thrust forward to run him through. America could see the look of astonishment on the soldier's face – he had not known what he was getting into. England yanked his sword free with a wet sound. He stood back up in a fluid motion - a true predator, full of preternatural grace, treating even the steps of battle as though they were all part of a dance. England gave his sword a fierce swing through the air, stopping it short so that the excess blood fanned off the surface of the steel. "Strangely enough, I was just thinking of you. About the past."

"Oh?" America extended the point of his sword towards England in an open challenge, flexing his fingers around the hilt. "Were you feeling nostalgic? You want to tell me a story so I'll sleep well tonight? Come on then, _brother_, and let's hear it."

England came towards him across the lawn. He cut down another soldier, twirling easily to avoid the blood that showered on his cloak instead, the red material fanning with the motion. "I wouldn't call it nostalgia. Not really. It's just something that I've always done when fighting my enemies." A British soldier stumbled into his path. England flashed a look of annoyance at him, putting his foot on the man's shoulder to shove him aside back into the fray. "I would be in the middle of cutting through soldiers, through scores of men, and all I could manage to think of at the time would be you."

Another British soldier attacked America. The man turned as the bayonet came arcing towards him, bringing his sword up to clang roughly against the point of the soldier's weapon. He had infinite times more strength than the other, so America was easily able to force that bayonet to the side, exposing the soldier as he struck him down with a vicious swipe. America twisted back to England with a scowl. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It would just be about mundane things. I'd wonder if you were eating properly, or if you were being kept on a strict schedule for bed." England continued as if their conversation hadn't been interrupted. "I would find myself worrying that you might get hurt playing in the forest; I was always imagining up such ridiculous scenarios as I fretted over your safety. Mainly, I wondered what you were doing right at that moment. If you were—" He grunted as a bullet grazed his right arm.

England turned to the soldier that had fired the offending shot. He drove his sword through the man with frightening force. It went far enough into the man's body that when England tried to pull it back out he was met with resistance from the muscle tissue. He had to put his foot against the dead man's chest, pushing against him while yanking at his weapon, so that it wrenched loose. England wet his lips, tongue swiping out quickly. Some of the blood on his face was drawn into his mouth with the motion but it didn't register in his manner as he continued. "If you were happy. If you were smiling like you always did. If you were… thinking of me like I was thinking of you."

"I probably was." America told him. England had reached him, standing a few paces away. England's bloodied sword touched against his, resting there steel to steel, as they took measure of each other across the length of their crossed weapons.

"Once again I find myself in the midst of a battle and my thoughts turn to you." England said thoughtfully, scraping his sword along the edge of America's. "Everything that I set out here to do has been accomplished: I have driven your soldiers back from Canada and secured his peace. I have destroyed your capitol, just as Canada's was, to teach your people what it means to lose something so precious. Our forces have been warring back and forth without considerable gains or losses to either side – we are at something of a draw."

England's sword lowered. "I have been fighting endlessly for nearly a decade and sporadically before that. I wouldn't hesitate to take up my sword against France again." His eyes intently studied America's face. "You, though… I am tired of fighting you. Try as I might, I really don't have the spirit for it. Tell me, America: What would you say to us finally putting an end to this power struggle? We will withdraw and cease attacking your ships at sea. You will leave Canada alone. It would be such an easy compromise. What do you say to that?"

America stared back at him with disbelief. Was England offering peace at last? The older nation looked sincere with his offer, also genuinely weary from the fight. America blinked as he considered the possibilities of a future without having to worry about the British Empire creating problems for his people. They would finally be able to expand west, with only their own limitations to hold them back. He looked down at his sword where it hung in his hand.

Then he drove it forward and pierced England in the side with the tip of it.

England's eyes widened as he felt the pain of America's sword penetrating his flesh. America drew his sword back, tossing it to the ground as England clasped a hand over the wound, looking between it and the young nation with astonishment. It wouldn't be anywhere near enough to kill him, and the shallow depth of the wound would heal within a matter of hours considering their regenerative powers as nations. America murmured. "Fine. Then from this point on, we negotiate the terms of peace."

Looking between America and his wound again, England let out a small, pain-filled chuckle as he clutched his side. He was impressed. "Somehow, I figured you would say it like that."

* * *

A/N:

1790 - Despite the Revolutionary War ending in 1783 with the Treaty of Paris, the American government was not completely formed until 1789. The transition between the end of the revolution and the start of the fledgling U.S. government was riddled with disagreements over how precisely the new nation was going to run.

1803 – The Louisiana Purchase was official between the U.S. and France during that year. Thanks to the Jay Treaty with Britain in 1795, the previous alliance between France and the U.S. had ended. Napoleon, however, saw the potential to create another rival for the British Empire, entering negotiations through a French friend of Thomas Jefferson's. When he signed the agreement, Napoleon is quoted to have said: "_This accession of territory affirms forever the power of the United States, and I have given England a maritime rival who sooner or later will humble her pride." _(Unfortunately, I can't think of Napoleon without imagining the portrayal of him in that old movie, _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure_ – know what I mean?)

1814 – Of course this is set during the War of 1812, between Britain and the United States. Britain was busy waging war with France and Spain when the war first started, so the army could only try to fend of the advances of the U.S. for the first couple years. When Napoleon was defeated, Britain started to attack the U.S. with a vengeance. There were several reasons why the U.S. began the war, but many people have claimed that a desire to annex Canada as part of U.S. territory was also part of the motivation. At the Battle of York, American soldiers looted, ran rampant, and burnt down the official buildings in the city. Later that year, the British marched their way through Washington D.C. and burnt the White House down in retaliation.

There wasn't really a victor – in the end, both sides basically agreed to disagree. The end of the War of 1812 marked the last time that Britain and the U.S. would be on opposite sides of a major war. It also started the history of peace between the two nations as a precursor to what would one day form their _Special Relationship_.

**Also:** There were a couple of adult scenes that were originally written in conjunction with this installment (America wasn't invited to entertain France with _board games_ after all, though playing board games with France could have caused him to freak out as badly, I suppose - winkwinknudgenudge). However, I'm too paranoid over the restrictions of this site and whether my readers would want to read them or not. If enough people are excited about it, I'll post the link to them in the next installment for them to view at their discretion. Huzzah.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello again! I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone again for taking the time to drop me a kind word or two - and I apologize that this update did not happen sooner.

Taking the suggestions left by a few of you, I made up my mind that I wouldn't try so hard to censor the mature nature of my story elements as much. So, with that said:

**Warning:** The end of this installment includes sexual situations between two individuals. I have also included a segment that I had edited out of a previous installment. I make no promises about my ability to write sex scenes well. It isn't something that I have explored much in my writings. Please let me know if the style works (and isn't rushed, forced, etc.). I am always looking to improve on my skills so that I can be more entertaining to you lovely readers! For now, proudly sail with me on the flagship of the UK/US Navy - ahoy!

* * *

_World Conference – 1845_

It was a definite climate shock to be in Russia's territory. America had experienced a few winter storms during his time in the northern part of his own home – this, however, was an unending cold the like of which he'd never previously known. He was fortunate that Canada had sent him a letter in time to warn him about what to expect from the weather. America had been able to scrounge up some extra items to wear for the trip; gloves lined with fur, a jacket padded similarly by the local natives that he often visited. They had even given him a hat that covered most of his head, with drooping flaps of fur that hung over his ears to protect them from the cold.

He felt ridiculous. He was pretty sure that he looked ridiculous. And to top off that potential for humiliation was the fact that he still felt really cold. America touched absently at his face to adjust his glasses. They were also new and he certainly was not used to them yet. They'd only been finished just days before his voyage, and though he'd checked himself over and over again in the mirror and had decided that they didn't look too bad on him, America was still self-conscious about showing up to the meeting in them.

When he arrived at the complex, America handed his luggage over to the Russian attendants that greeted him, glad that one of them could speak English enough for him to communicate. That helped him to get a sense for when the actual meetings would start, where the nations would gather, and where his lodgings were assigned. It made him feel better seeing that everyone else here was dressed in similar fashion, though these Russian citizens struck him as a serious sort of people. America smiled at the man who was carrying his other case of luggage as they walked towards the boarding rooms. "So, do you know who I'm going to be bunking with?"

The man led them to a door without responding to the question or the smile. He took a key out of his pocket to unlock it, pressing it open to reveal the room inside. It had a rustic, cabin-like feel. America could certainly handle sleeping in a place like this – he had a place just like it back home. Once America's case had been set down, the man handed him over the key, stating simply, "You will be staying with our delegate from Russia."

"Okay, well, thank… you…" America trailed off as the man marched from the room without even giving him enough time to speak. He glanced down at the key in his hand and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. It appeared that he was going to be rooming with the host nation this time around. America had never met Russia, aside from casual introductions across the meeting tables. He'd always seemed so remote and unapproachable. That, and everyone else kept warning him about establishing solid relations with the frozen nation.

America had arrived well ahead of schedule. Since his itinerary was wide open, he made up his mind to explore the place and see who might have already been there. Of course, there was some risk involved that he'd run across certain nations that would have made him feel awkward if he came across them. Even after all this time, America still wasn't comfortable around France after 1803. Mexico was still very angry with him after his nation had helped with the Texas Revolution – and now that Texas had been absorbed as part of him, Mexico had made his feelings on the subject rather clear. In fact, he'd had a cactus delivered to America just last month – decorated with strange looking skulls and a large knife pointedly driven through its midsection.

Mexico had never been one for subtlety. America had been afraid to touch the thing and it had eventually frozen over on his doorstep. As much as he hoped to avoid it, the possibility of going to war with Mexico was becoming inevitable.

Then, of course, there was England. Just thinking the name of that island nation caused America to blush fiercely. He had not spoken to England since they had solidified their treaty several years back. It had been easy to avoid the older nation during the Conferences. America had been distracted with the Texas Revolution, and England had been at war with China over… well. Over something or another. Frankly, it didn't seem like England ever waited to have much of an excuse to enter into a war with another nation. As far as he had heard, England had been victorious. Again. And now the British Empire had even _more_ colonies.

If America paid more attention to the world outside his borders, he'd probably be more informed on everything that had happened. It was just easier to focus on his own progress, his own expansion, as his territory flourished. His agricultural industry was booming as people moved further west. New, untapped resources were being discovered where they had been ignored before. America could feel himself fleshing out even more; stronger, taller – a steady, sturdy nation that was blossoming all on its own without the outside interference of others.

One day, maybe, he'd reach out and show Europe his true, real potential. For the time being he was content to let them wonder, asking questions that he dodged with vague responses, while America enjoyed the fact that he was still something of a mystery to the rest of the world. It was easier to keep his secrets guarded. He was not prepared to open up his house and receive their company just yet.

Canada knew. Once they had been back in good terms, Canada visited him several times. He had seen America's expanding maps, his notes on progress that his people had made. They never touched upon that side of things in their quest to simply enjoy each other's company now that the British and American governments had settled into a steady, if still tense, time of peace. America was all too aware that Canada absorbed all the changes taking place in America's borders, and he knew that his brother was probably reporting everything back to England. He just didn't care enough either way to raise it as an issue of contention.

America walked out into the hall shutting his door behind him as he looked back and forth to see which direction he should go. He went right, since there were voices coming from that way and America was curious to see who might have been hanging around. As he got closer, his speed began to slow as those voices started to rise, followed by the sounds of a struggle. America stuck his head around the corner to peer down the corridor to see what was going on. There were still rules regarding fights between nations during the Conference.

Of course – the Conference hadn't technically started yet.

He raised an eyebrow at the unlikely sight that greeted him. There were three nations in the hallway. The man and woman America did not recognize, but the third was unmistakably Prussia. And right now Prussia was on the floor, twisted in a rather uncomfortable position by the woman. She had his arm twisted up behind his back, a booted foot pressing him down to the floor as she glared at him. "I told you to stay away! When will you get it through your thick skull that you can't just go around doing what you want?"

The other man was plucking nervously at his garments, seeming horrified with the exchange. America wondered if he was more fearful of Prussia or of the woman. Prussia was groaning where his face was buried in the floor, turning his head to growl up at her. "You damn harpy! Just wait until I get up off this floor – I'll make you sorry."

"You have already made me sorry." She snapped harshly down at him. "Sorry that I ever made any association with a spoiled brat like you!"

Prussia looked like he was in a lot of pain. America wanted to simply walk away and let them have it out, but he would have felt guilty leaving his old ally in such a predicament. With a sigh, America came out into the hallway, walking towards them with a polite smile. "Is there a problem here?"

When he interrupted their argument, the woman released Prussia with a scowl. She took her foot off the other nation's back, pushing her hair back over her shoulders. "There's no problem, aside from Prussia being Prussia."

"I can understand how that might be a problem," America said pleasantly, "though I don't think attacking him is worth the risk of being forced out of the Conference." He ignored the dirty look that Prussia gave him for the comment, America extending a hand to help the other nation up.

Prussia just swatted the offered hand aside and climbed to his feet without assistance. He clutched his shoulder, rolling it around to check that nothing was broken or sprained. Red eyes glared at each of them before he gave a flourish of his cloak, a finger stabbing itself in the woman's direction. "You may have caught me unawares today, Hungary, but next time you will not be so lucky. Stupid, ugly, man-thing!" Prussia righted his hat where it had gone askew on his head, stomping away from them once he'd made his warning clear.

"I should have brought my frying pan to hit him with." Hungary said sullenly after the other nation had gone, curling a fist against her hip.

The other man shook his head, still in awe of everything he'd just witnessed. "It would not have done any good. Nothing gets through his skull, not even pain." He turned towards America with a wry smile. "I am very sorry that you had to see our altercation. We are normally much better behaved than this." Extending his hand out to America, he introduced himself. "I am Austria. This, as you may have overheard, is Hungary. We have the distinct misfortune of being neighbors to Prussia."

"You have my sympathies." America said lightly as he clasped the other nation's hand. "I'm America. It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"You're America? Britannia's old colony?" Austria asked in disbelief.

America slumped a little. "Do people still think of me that way?"

Hungary laughed. She was rather lovely when she wasn't committing violence. "Not all of us, no. I suppose Austria is just surprised – we had expected you to be different. More like Britannia in demeanor."

"Trust me – I am very far from Britannia in demeanor." America assured them as he waved his hands in the air. "Luckily, there isn't much that I retained from my time with him, aside from a few key things."

"That is good to hear." Austria murmured. He didn't seem to be a fan of the island nation. America wondered why but decided not to ask. Austria gestured down the hall. "We were just on our way to the dining hall for an early lunch when Prussia found us. If you aren't busy, you are more than welcome to join us for a meal."

"I'd like that." America answered. The mention of food made his stomach growl as if on cue. He patted it with a smirk. "I haven't ever had the cuisine from this far to the East – I'm curious to try it."

* * *

After he'd shared an enjoyable lunch with Austria and Hungary, America parted company with the pair on his way back towards his room. While he had enjoyed the conversations that they'd shared, the young nation had the impression that his presence there was something of a distraction. They obviously cared for each other considerably. It was rather sweet to think that such a relationship could be possible between nations. America had never experienced something like it – though he supposed, in a way, that his colony days under England's care had been similarly close. Before everything had gone sour.

His thoughts about that certain nation worked as some sort of summons. As America returned to the door of his room to change for the meeting, he came across one of the few individuals he had been hoping to avoid. By the look on England's face, the surprise was mutual. The older nation's green eyes were enlarged with shock. As usual, England recovered his composure first and settled immediately into a scowl – apparently his favorite expression for America. "America. What… what on earth is on your face?"

"My glasses?" America touched two fingers to the earpiece as he adjusted them. "Too many nights staying up reading with too little light, I guess. Either that, or else Mexico figured out some way to put a curse on me – I'm still undecided. Why do you ask?"

"They don't suit you."

America snorted. Leave it to England to practically greet him with an insult. He forced a smile, knowing that it didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps if I maintained a healthy diet of conquering the world on a daily basis then my eyesight might be as pristine as yours. Unfortunately, I've had my energy invested into other ventures."

An argument formed on the tip of England's tongue, America bracing to receive the scathing retort that would undoubtedly follow his own insult towards the older nation. Instead, England's cheeks colored as he averted his gaze. "I suppose I deserved that. It wasn't my intention to insult you. That appears to be an automatic habit." His eyes scanned America's face more thoroughly, looking him over. "They… look nice. On you. It… makes you seem more mature."

"I suppose that counts for something." America murmured wryly. He found it difficult to keep his eyes focused on England too long, especially when the older nation blushed like that. It conjured glimpses of memories that he'd tried hard to bury away deep in the confines of his mind. With an awkward cough, America gestured past England. "Well, I… I should get going, then. I still need to change for the meeting."

"Yes. Yes, of course." England nodded quickly, his eyes also wandering everywhere but America's face. At least he behaved as if he was just as uncomfortable with the strange tension between them. It made America feel just a bit better about his own reaction. England acted like he wanted to say more, but simply shook his head and hurried past America as he continued on his way.

America turned to watch him go. He saw England stop at the end of the hallway to glance back at him. The older nation was alarmed to be caught doing so, America left with curiosity over why England would blush so furiously as he hurried that much faster out of sight. America's hands settled on his hips with a musing sound. He was never going to be able to figure out how the hell that nation's mind worked.

"What was that about?" Canada's voice suddenly piped up from beside him, causing America to jolt in surprise.

Whirling around on his brother, America threw his hands up in the air. "Would you _stop_ doing that? How many times have I asked you to stop sneaking up on me like this?"

Canada glared at him. "I was standing here the entire time."

"Oh. Were you?" Now America felt silly and very much like an ass. "Sorry. I guess I was just absorbed."

"Absorbed in yourself, as usual, or absorbed in Britannia?" Canada asked him, obviously feeling like being mean in retaliation of his brother's slight.

America turned his face away from his sibling. "Can we not talk about him? You know that it's a sore subject."

"If you want." Canada shrugged. "Hey, are you free right now? There's someone that I want to introduce you to. He's been staying with me these last few months while transitioning as a new British colony. I think you'd like him."

Canada looped his arm through America's, starting to pull him forward just when America started to protest. "I don't know… I don't think Britannia likes me having anything to do with his colonies much. He probably believes that I'll give you all bad ideas about independence."

"Britannia has several meetings to attend before the main conference starts." Canada explained. "He'll be occupied for hours. What goes on in the meantime is not really anything that he needs to know about, right?"

America chuckled at his brother's logic. "See what I mean? You've been hanging around me on and off and now you're doing things behind Britannia's back. Naturally, that must be my influence."

Canada led the way through the maze of lodgings. A few of the doors along the way stood open, so America was able to see some nations standing inside them. They were settling into the accommodations or preparing for the meeting, too distracted to notice him walking by. America wondered if he was going to make it back to his room in time to get ready himself. While Canada didn't seem bothered by the lack of time, he wasn't expected to perform the same duties as America, which gave him plenty of lenience.

They arrived at a door, Canada knocking briskly before letting himself inside. America hesitated at the threshold as his brother went into the room. "Hong Kong? Are you here? I have someone that I would like for you to meet."

Canada waved him inside. America shut the door behind him with a quick look around. There was a small teenager seated on the bed on the left side of the room. He was different than the Europeans that America was used to dealing with. His hair was a deep inky black, skin just as pale as the snow outside. When his face lifted so that America could see it, he saw that the teen's eyes were equally dark, with a delicate shape to them that reminded him of almonds. Those black eyes watched him without fear, or interest, or…much of anything. That vacant yet penetrating stare made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

It didn't phase Canada at all. He smiled as he placed a hand on the teenager's shoulder, gesturing towards America. "This is my brother, America, that I've told you all about. He actually made it to the Conference this year. America, this is Hong Kong – one of Britannia's latest conquests."

"Um. How do you do?" America said as a formal greeting. He stuck his hand out towards the teenager with a faint smile.

Hong Kong's eyes lowered to fixate on that extended hand. His manner was similar to that of a feline, cautious and on the verge of displeasure. America saw that his hands were swallowed up in a flowing sleeve of red fabric, his clothes very much styled in the fashion of the Orient. That was a style that America had seen glimpses of in the past and had always admired. He was curious if he could pull that kind of fashion off as well as others did. America waited patiently for the teenager to respond, until Hong Kong's hand finally emerged from all that fabric to clasp his.

Shaking it enthusiastically, America began to unleash a barrage of questions on the teenager, as all the things bubbling up in his brain boiled over. "What's the Orient like? Is it really hot there? Someone told me that you guys have actual real-live dragons – do you really have dragons in the Orient? Are they trained like dogs? Can I see one or are they invisible to foreigners?"

Hong Kong's mouth dropped open. He looked quickly away from America with a desperate gaze towards Canada. The older colony seemed to understand his difficulty, making a face at America. "If you're going to ask him questions, you'll have to ask one at a time. And ask him slowly – he's just now learning our language, America."

"Sorry." America blanched. He smiled sheepishly at Hong Kong. "I'm very sorry. I guess I got carried away there in my excitement. You're just the first non-European nation that I have officially met."

"You… are excited?" Hong Kong asked haltingly, his volume so low that America had to lean in to hear him.

"Yes. Very excited. I only know about the Orient from what I have read and heard about from sailors and merchants." America explained to the teenager. "It's always been a fascinating culture to me. I mean we're sort of like neighbors – America and the Orient, yet I don't know much about you."

Hong Kong tilted his head to the side as he considered America's words. "My… brothers are… much stronger than myself. China. Japan. Why are you excited… meeting me?"

America shrugged. "It's just like I said. You're the first member of the Orient that I've ever met. That means a lot to me just to have the honor to make your acquaintance." He smiled broadly at the teenager.

Canada sat down on the bed next to Hong Kong, who actually seemed flattered at America's frank expression. Lacing his fingers together, Canada smiled faintly up at his brother. "It's quite a shock for Hong Kong to be here at the Conference. He's had to travel quite a ways, between having to sail all the way to my home at Britannia's request, and then back here to Russia with me. As I understand it, his homeland is a very closed culture right now, similar to the others. Britannia has been too busy to help him transition into his new position as a British colony – so the rest of us have tried to do what we can to make him feel more comfortable."

"So… what's he supposed to do here, then?" America asked with a frown. "If he doesn't even really speak our language, and doesn't understand all these cultural changes, then how can Britannia expect him to possibly be happy here at the Conference?"

"You know how it is. We're here to represent Britannia's power throughout the world, to maintain the authority that he has over so many nations. The tactic has worked for him so well throughout the years – and now Britannia has quite a few of us to make him look even better." Canada murmured. He sighed, shaking his head. "It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so boring for us. Aside from our expected appearances at the Conference, there is little else for us to do besides stay cooped up in our rooms. At least the other guys got to have rooms with a view."

America blinked confusedly. "The 'other guys'? Exactly how many of you are here for Britannia to show off?"

"Quite a few. Do you mean to tell me that you don't know about the other nations in the British Empire?"

"I haven't kept track, honestly." America shrugged dismissively despite his brother's incredulous tone. "I don't involve myself in the business of the world so long as they don't involve themselves in mine. I'm in a unique position where I can pick and choose what I want to take from the rest of the world – if it doesn't interest me then I tend not to pay much attention."

"That… is infuriatingly like you." Canada said darkly. "It must be nice to live blissfully unaware of the rest of the world. You do realize that it can't last, right? One day, whether you like it or not, you're going to have to step outside your own borders. It wouldn't hurt you to be a _little_ informed on international matters."

America laughed. "You sound like my boss. Polk is always pretty baffled by my ability to ignore the affairs of Europe, too."

Cupping his chin with his hand, America turned an idea over and over in his mind. While it was true that he needed to be leaving soon for the meeting, he felt bad hearing his brother lament over the boredom that their predicament caused them. And having just met Hong Kong, America wasn't entirely ready to leave without delving a little further into the questions that he had for the teenager. He needed to do something about it – because America knew that if he was skilled at something, that definitely would have been problem solving. America nodded decisively. "Okay. I've got it. Canada – how many of Britannia's colonies are currently here at the Conference?"

"I guess…" Canada trailed off, doing a quick mental count, "there are about eight of us who made the trip. Why?"

America clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms against each other with a budding grin. "Because I have a great idea for something that you guys can do to keep entertained. Granted, the rules are fairly new and the general sport is still in its infancy stage, but I think you guys will get a kick out of my latest, greatest slice of American genius. Go get the other colonies and meet me outside in ten minutes."

* * *

"…Ukraine is 'present'. The United States of America." Russia looked up from the list of nations when there was no answer. His violet eyes searched the faces of the table, the small smile that curved his mouth making the nations nearest to him quickly nervous as Russia repeated his words as a query. "The United States of America?"

There were murmurs around the table. England stood up from his chair with a frown. "He should be here somewhere. I saw him just under an hour ago in the complex."

Hungary lifted her own hand into the air. "Austria and I had lunch with him this afternoon, so we can confirm that he is on the location somewhere."

Russia's smile didn't waver, despite a sudden frostiness in the room. "Hum. I see. He must be running late. Again." He turned towards an attendant standing nearby and his voice was lightly pleasant. "Would you gather some others to see where our friend from America scampered off to?"

"Actually, sir, the American is down in the courtyard with some of the other representatives and they are—" The attendant started to inform Russia as to the other nation's whereabouts, when one of the windows of the room suddenly shattered inwards as something came speeding through it. Glass shards sprayed across the table in a glittering mess, a few nations ducking instinctively to avoid getting hit by anything. Winter air whistled in through the hole in the window, sucking in some of the snow that clung to the windowsill.

England was one of the first to react, blinking in wide-eyed astonishment at the broken glass. "What the bloody hell just happened? Are we under attack?"

Russia stepped away from the head of the table. He crossed the room to where the projectile had eventually landed, crouching down to retrieve it from the floor. Russia studied the round, white ball with some interest, squeezing his fingers around it to test its firmness. "I do not think it was an attack. But there definitely had better be a good explanation for why that just happened."

* * *

America dropped the bat down to clatter at his feet, clutching his hat down further on his head as panicked horror coursed through him. His face was locked in a grimace of alarm and had been that way since the very second that the ball went sailing off the top of his bat with astonishing speed in the _wrong direction_. "Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please tell me that didn't just happen."

As America squeezed at his head, Australia stood up from where he'd been waiting to catch the pitch from Canada, the only colony that hadn't been bothered by the idea of being close to people's swinging bats and flying balls so near to his face. He let out an impressed whistle. "Did you see how fast it flew? You couldn't have done any better firing it out of a cannon."

Bombay was making gestures to Calcutta from his assigned base, motioning his arms in a replay of America's swing and an upward gesture to indicate where the ball had flown. India held out a palm to Gibraltar, who trudged over from the outfield with a sigh to deposit some coins in the other colony's hand, Gibraltar muttering unhappily. "I still think the bet should only apply to people getting hit, rather than objects. Him smashing the window really shouldn't count!"

"A bet is a bet. I called it." India purred as he deposited the coins into a pouch at his belt.

New Zealand gaped at them from his position mid-field. "You guys can't just go around making bets! That's so un-sportsman like." When they ignored him, he marched over to where they were standing with a growl.

Canada ran over to stand on America's other side, wincing as he saw the damage to the window. "That… is unfortunate. I did warn you that this would happen, didn't I? Do you think anyone was inside that room?"

"Yeah…" America swallowed thickly. "I'm pretty sure that's the conference room."

Hong Kong stepped over from where he had been observing the game as a referee. He looked from the window, to America, then back to the window. There were several people that were standing at the windows now – none of them looking very pleased. Hong Kong cocked his head to the left. "Would that be… a 'foul' or an 'out'?"

"That would pretty much count as a game ender." America groaned.

* * *

_World Conference – 1848_

Spain filled up another glass of wine for him, speaking animatedly. "I still don't see what all the fuss was about. A broken window, a minor disruption – it still boggles me that they would have sought to bar you from attending the Conference as a result. Naturally, I was not one of the nations that voted in _favor_ of the motion."

"Naturally." America murmured with a vague smile as he picked his glass back up to sip at its contents. Spain had selected an exquisite wine to share with his guest. The nation certainly knew how to woo for favor, that much was obvious. "I was rather surprised to receive your personal invitation to attend this year's meeting. They had been rather implicit about me not being allowed to return for a full five years – I had not been anticipating another invitation until 1850."

"I tend to make my own decisions based on what I feel is right." Spain murmured as he settled back into his chair. Their table was remote from the others in the dining room. Spain, being the host nation, had explained it away as wanting to provide America with some protection from the others who might still have been bitter with him about the Baseball Fiasco of 1845, as they called it. "You have as much right to be here as anyone else, _amigo_. Everyone was in strange spirits during that Conference – undoubtedly the cold got to their minds. I anticipate that they will be much more forgiving this time around."

America placed his wine down with that smile still in place. He took his fork back up to return to his food. The wine had loosened him up enough that America no longer felt the need to censor his behavior. This polite charade had gone on long enough. "I anticipate that they will myself. Given my recent… discoveries, I wouldn't be surprised if all of you came falling all over yourselves to get a part of my new wealth." Spain choked on his wine at America's choice of words. He tried to look offended by the insinuation, though America lifted a hand up to calm him before Spain could speak. "It's fine. Really. You don't have to try so hard to please or impress me, Spain. I appreciate all the efforts that you've been making on my behalf, but I'm a little too modest for you to go to all this expense in an effort to earn my favor."

"I wasn't—"

"You were. I can understand your desire to acquire permission to come reap the benefits of all the gold that has been uncovered across my western lands. California has yielded an impressive harvest of wealth. More than I even know what to do with myself." America smiled at the other nation. "If you want my permission, all that you had to do was ask. Of course you have my permission, Spain. Let my bounty become yours as well."

Spain was caught off guard by America's frank demeanor. "I didn't… think that it would be that easy."

"No one ever does." America chuckled quietly. "That's why everything is so difficult between you Europeans. None of you ever consider just _asking_ for what you want. I'm no European. I march to the beat of a different drummer." He let his fork fall to clatter on his plate, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin before America rose up from the table. Spain was still reeling over America's response to his efforts. America patted him consolingly on the shoulder. "Dinner was lovely, by the way. Thanks again for all your hard work, Spain. I'll see you around."

As he walked alone through the rest of the dining room, America knew that other nations were looking at him. They had been curious about him before and now their curiosity was partnered with a more admiring regard. Word had traveled fast through the world about his accomplishments this year. Not only had he managed to force Mexico to the south; America's consequent expansion into his newly acquired land of California had turned up a sea of gold. It amused him that he'd become one of the most popular nations in the world overnight.

In fact, it did not surprise him in the slightest when he returned to his room for the evening and found England waiting for him at the door. America smirked as he walked up to the other nation, lifting an eyebrow. "Well. Fancy meeting you here. What an _unexpected _surprise."

"You shouldn't be surprised to see me." England said blandly. "I heard that Spain was trying his best to win you over. I'm sure that some of the others have made advances to earn your favor already. You should have known that this would happen."

"Oh, I did. The moment they told me about the discovery, I knew that everyone's attitude towards me was going to quickly change." America hitched his shoulder in a shrug. He looked England over from head to toe. The older nation was wearing a tidy suit of black; the buttons of his silk waistcoat carved out of pearl. America's smirk increased as he reached down to finger one of them. "Look at _you_. You even dressed up for me – I'm impressed. Though why all the black? It's sort of funereal, isn't it?"

"I'm mourning the pride that you're undoubtedly going to make me sacrifice in an effort to earn your approval." England's voice held a trace of bitterness. He cherished his pride so much, after all, and America knew how much of an effort it was just for him to admit to wanting something. The British Empire hardly ever expressed an open desire for anything – it was so easy for them to simply take what they wanted. Now, though, they could only get what they wanted on America's terms.

"Shall we get this over with, then?" America asked mockingly, echoing back the same words that England had spoken to him years ago when their circumstances were far different. He took out his key, opening the door to his room. Spain had been so kind as to arrange a private suite for him – another effort that was wasted, but one that America would enjoy to his advantage. America gestured for England to enter ahead of him, the older nation hesitating briefly before he hardened with resolution as he went in.

America shut the door behind him and leant back against it. England had gone to stand in the center of the room. He was looking around, surveying the quality of it, though when his eyes touched upon the large bed England went scarlet and turned away from its direction. America turned the lock of the door behind him. It was fairly obvious what was supposed to happen here. The best part about it was that England had come here knowing that whatever America asked for was more or less his duty to deliver. He slid a finger up to his throat, unlacing the ribbon tied around his neck as he studied England's figure from a distance. "It seems a shame, doesn't it? Spain got me this room, with that mighty large bed, and he doesn't even get to share it with me like he'd probably intended to."

"You're saying that you have no intention to make the others do this for you?" England asked him with a scowl of disbelief.

"Nope. I'm not really interested in those kind of relations with them." America said dismissively. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he crossed the room to where England stood. The man's spine was stiff, refusing to turn around and acknowledge him. America's hands took hold of England by the hips from behind. When the elder nation would not allow his figure to be drawn backwards, America just closed the space between their bodies so that he was pressed flush against the warmth of England's back.

He bent his face in, deeply inhaling the scent of England's hair, relishing that particular mesh of smells that was distinct to that one nation alone. America's eyes slid half-mast as he studied the side of England's face from that angle, whispering to him. "You know, I'm a little drunk from the wine Spain gave me. They say that if a person gets too drunk that they can become impotent when it comes time to perform – I never have that problem myself, do you?"

England didn't answer his question. He did, however, turn a deeper shade of scarlet, saying huskily. "I didn't… I didn't bring anything to prepare for… for intercourse."

"Intercourse?" America's fingers tightened against England's body. He threw his head back with a laugh, sliding his hands up from their hold on those hips in order to clasp against England's stomach instead to keep himself steady as he laughed. "Wow. Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves here. Who said anything about that sort of activity?"

"I had thought…" England trailed off with a frown. He pushed America's hands roughly down from his waist, forcing the younger nation to release him so that England could turn around to glare up at him. "What the hell sort of game are you playing at, America?"

"Was I playing? Funny, I don't even know what game it is that I'm supposed to be involved in." America smiled lightly down at England's angry face. "If you aren't careful, you'll give me the impression that you're _disappointed _that I don't want to make love to you."

England shook his head with a huff. "Forget it. You are going to make this impossible. I would rather lose out on the resources than endure having to put up with you any longer." He pulled his waistcoat straighter with a stiff motion, stepping past America towards the door.

His hand was just gripping the doorknob when England found himself driven into from behind. He grunted with pain and surprise as America sandwiched the older nation there against the wood of the door. England attempted to squirm free, though America pressed tighter until those struggles ceased. He was furious, yelling at the younger nation over his shoulder. "Stop this right now! I said that I was finished with you and I meant it. Now let me out, America."

"No. Not yet." America informed him calmly. His wine-fogged mind was relishing the feeling of having England's body so thoroughly pinned, all the hard planes and slight curves of the island nation fitting so well against the front of him. America's fingers pried the older nation's away from the doorknob, while his other hand danced down the front of England's thigh. "I'm not finished with you yet, Britannia."

He pressed his lips to the shell of England's ear, dropping his voice to a whisper. "You misunderstood me. I have no intention of going that far with you. Making love is an incredibly intimate, meaningful exchange. We have _had_ each other, sure, but I will not _take_ you, nor will I allow you to take _me_. That is not something that I could ever treat as lightly as you other nations do. When I make love, when I finally _really_ make love, it will be for something other than greed."

America slid his hand forward. He felt England's body jerk when he grabbed him intimately through the cloth of his trousers. Apparently, England was not as unhappy with their positions as he let on, judging by the hardness of the flesh that greeted him behind the shield of that fabric. America's teeth grazed the lobe of England's ear as he began to move his hand so that his palm danced over the heat of the older nation, stroking the fire that had already been building. "Still, I'm impressed. Were you really ready to come here to whore yourself out for some fields of gold dust?"

"Th-that wasn't…" England tried to deny it. His breath and his words hitched in his throat as America squeezed him through his trousers. He touched his forehead to the door with a low groan of protest, as America's fingers deftly teased him.

"…wasn't your intention?" America finished for him when England was unable to continue. It made him smirk, and he knew that it probably appeared as cynical as he himself had been feeling lately. Who would have thought that he had it in him to become this jaded so soon? "I don't know that I believe you. It's fortunate for the both of us that my morals are still too high to carry it that far, don't you think?"

When he felt England start to tremble all over, America decided to pursue his efforts a little further, his unoccupied hand gripping hold of England's hip in order to pull them back from the door. He blindly worked the older nation's belt open, peppering kisses along the flesh of England's throat when it was offered up to him. Once he'd gotten those trousers open, America freed the flesh from inside it, finding that England was hot and thick and pulsing in his hand when he wrapped his fingers around that length.

There were no words of endearment. America did not coo affectionately at him, nor did England ask for more. All they shared were the shaking sounds of America's breaths as he labored to bring England to climax and the soft, keening moans that England gasped against the wood grain of the door. Even when the rhythm intensified until England finally succumbed with a cry that he muffled by biting his bottom lip, spilling himself across America's hand, they shared nothing beyond a silence neither of them wanted to break.

Once England had ridden through his climax, America finally stepped back to give him some room, leaving England to slide down to sit on the floor when his legs decided not to support his weight. America panted, feeling himself hard in response to the shared intimacy, but more than willing to ignore it. He stared at England from a few feet away, as the other nation rolled his head back against the door, green eyes glazed from pleasure as they regarded America in turn. Lifting his hand up, America eyed the slick fluids that coated his palm. "Don't get me wrong. This doesn't mean that I love you."

England nodded once, eyes closing. "I know."

* * *

_World Conference – 1861_

America sat on his side of the table long after the meeting had ended. He stared out the nearby window, watching as the sun set on the horizon. Everyone else had probably gone off to dinner. Right now, he just couldn't find it in him to feel hungry. Something was bothering him that he couldn't place. It was stirring inside in a deep, dark place that America did his best to ignore. He tried to dismiss it as just a result of too much strain. The last few years had been endlessly busy for him.

He looked up quickly when the door to the conference room opened. Canada stepped silently into the empty room, coming up to stand beside America's chair. He rested the back of his knuckles against his brother's forehead to check his temperature. "Are you… all right? I overheard a few nations mentioning the fact that you seemed out of sorts."

"I'm fine." America murmured quickly, twisting his head to get that hand away. His skin felt sensitive all over, so much so that Canada's mild pressure had felt like it were burning him. "I guess I'm just tired. There have been a lot of issues building back home. I've been so busy helping with this China business that I haven't had a chance to really address any of it." He smiled faintly. "I'll take care of it when I get back home. Then I'll be as good as new."

"You want to go get some dinner with me?"

"No, I'm… I think I'll pass, if that's okay?" America smiled wanly up to his brother. "I'm just going to stay here a few minutes longer and then I'll head to my room for the night."

Canada frowned at him. "I'll wait with you, then. We can walk to your room together."

"I don't need the escort." America shook his head. "Really, Canada, I'm fine. Stop being such a worrywart. Even I can be a little distant from time to time."

His brother didn't look satisfied with his explanation. Canada pursed his lips, still troubled. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure." America angled his head back on his chair, smiling brightly up at Canada. "Go get yourself something to eat before you become even more transparent."

Canada cuffed him on the shoulder with a snort. "Rude buffoon. See if I come checking up on you again." He smiled faintly back to demonstrate that he was only jesting. "Okay, America. I'll take your word for it. Just… come find me if you want to talk about… anything."

After Canada left the room, America raised his eyes up to study the ceiling overhead. Several people had already asked him today if he were feeling unwell. Was he really behaving so uncharacteristically that they'd be concerned? Sure, he hadn't been as social as he normally might have been, and maybe his energy level was lower than usual – yet wasn't that acceptable behavior for someone that had been doing so many things lately? America couldn't understand what they expected out of him.

When he finally went to his room, America saw that there were a few people waiting for him. England was speaking quietly with Canada there in the hallway, his brother's face lined with concern as he talked with the nation. Hong Kong lingered nearby them as he listened in on their conversation. He silently tugged on Canada's sleeve as he saw America approaching them. Both Canada and England turned his way as America closed in on their little trio with a mild smirk. "Well, well. If you guys fret any louder then you'll probably wake my neighbors."

"Canada is worried about you." England said tersely. "It would do you well to at least appreciate the concern."

"There is nothing to be worried about." America waved a hand in the air. "I'm fine. Just tired. If you guys would move out of the way then I could go into my room and sleep to help take care of the problem."

Canada scowled at his brother's casual remarks. "Stop pretending like nothing is going on. I've heard the rumors, even up in my territory. There's talk that civil unrest is brewing in your land, between your people."

"Those are just rumors. Everything is fine. Everything will _be_ fine. A few states have gotten a little carried away and have seceded – but they'll return soon enough. It'll all get sorted out." America murmured. He placed a hand against the wall beside his door. They were standing here talking at him when all he wanted to do was go to bed. His head wasn't steady enough for this nonsense. "Look, just… just let me go to sleep, okay? Please."

England was examining him. Nothing ever escaped those green eyes when they were so intent. He searched America for something, as if to confirm the suspicions that lurked inside his gaze. America turned away from the older nation with an irritated noise, fishing his key out of the pocket of his jacket. His vision swam as he tried to fit the key in the lock, a gray fog coating his eyes as America felt the world shift under his feet with sudden force. He wasn't aware of falling until his head cleared enough to make him aware that he was currently being supported halfway to the floor by England's arms, the older nation having stopped his collapse.

America blinked uncertainly as he heard them talking around him. England's voice was firmly directing the other two. "Canada, help me get him into the bed. Hong Kong – go get some help. Someone will know what to do. Hurry."

America's awareness was patchy. He felt the softness of the mattress beneath him, hands fighting ineffectively with the ones that were taking off his jacket and his glasses. "I'm fine. Knock it off."

The faces of England and Canada were blurry in the air above him. They went in and out of focus quite beyond his control, America unable to hear exactly what it was that they were saying to him. This behavior on their parts was ridiculous. If they had just left him alone like he'd asked, then he'd have been able to go into his room without their interference, and then he would have gone to…

* * *

America's mind came awake, hearing the sound of voices speaking nearby. He detected the lilt of England's voice amongst the exchange of whispers, though the sound of China's voice was quite unexpected. America tried to open his eyes yet found that his body was not prepared to obey his commands. China spoke from near his head, as America felt fingers gently probe at his abdomen. "I have never seen it to this extent before. You say that seven of his states have already broken off in an attempt to form their _own_ country?"

"And if these tensions continue to the point of an outbreak of war, four more have said that they will also leave the United States and become part of this… other America." Canada said quietly from somewhere across the room. "It's… I mean the entire thing has divided him completely in _half_. It's a miracle that he's been able to stay on his feet this long. This should have crippled him, shouldn't it?"

"It's rather unprecedented." England murmured. He sounded close at hand. America heard the sound of a chair creaking, as a cool cloth draped across his forehead. "Civil war is nothing new. We've all experienced it. Those instances were always small, scattered incidents that were quickly quashed. I've never seen it this extreme before. China?"

"Something is happening to him. What that might be I cannot say for sure." The fingers probing at his body stopped and withdrew before China continued. "My only suggestion would be to keep him under observation. Aside from that, and trying to make him as comfortable as possible, there is nothing else that we can do for him now."

England swore softly. He obviously did not approve of the diagnosis. America had regained enough sense of his body by now in order to roll his face in that direction. His eyes cracked open, flinching against the lights in the room. How long had he been unconscious? England's eyes were on his face when his eyes opened up again, calling to the others in the room as he shifted forward on his chair. "He's waking up."

China stepped into America's line of sight, standing beside England's chair near the bed. He bent in close, a hand falling to pry up both of America's eyelids a little further apart, checking the condition of his eyes. "Still glassy. I don't know that he's fully coherent right now."

"America – can you hear us?" England asked him gently.

"Yes…" America whispered, his voice croaking out of him. "I need to… I need to get home. They're calling for me. I hear them…"

"I would strongly advise against it." China told him sternly. "You are in no condition to travel right now, especially not across the ocean. We are not certain what is happening to you, America, but you are obviously very, very ill."

"Just get me on a boat." America weakly shook his head. "Canada can come with me – I don't care. I just need to be home now." He appealed to England with his eyes, trying to get the older nation to understand his need. "Britannia, please. It's my place to be there with my people. Please help me get home to them."

China and England exchanged a look. China was the first to turn away with a sigh, while England nodded faintly at America. "Very well. If you're that determined, then I shall sail you back to your home myself."

* * *

**A/N:** Too many nations. TOO MANY NATIONS! What the hell did I get myself into by setting these things at the World Conference? Ha ha.

Now, for the bits of history:

The Texas Revolution took place between 1835-1836. Texas became independent from Mexico thanks to the United States. And their slogan during the revolution? "Come and Take It." Am I the only one that thinks that Alfred definitely made that one up?

Texas became part of the United States of America in 1945. That made Mexico angry enough that the country entered into the Mexican-American War (1846-1848). Mexico was more or less bitch-slapped down into the south by the United States, and the U.S. ended up gaining the territories of New Mexico and California as a result.

1845 was also the year that American Baseball was invented. The rules were different than the current sport, and an official game wasn't played until... 1846? I think?

1848 - When people began exploring the new California territory out west, they discovered gold. Not just a little gold, but tons of it. Foreigners from all over the world came hoping to get some of America's riches for themselves. Oddly enough, the nation became quite popular as a result.

1861 – Abraham Lincoln was very open about his desire to work towards a slavery-free nation. The new states being established in the west weren't allowed to be slave states, which infuriated the South. Several states seceded from the United States before Lincoln was even able to take office as President. The rest of the Confederate states sided with the South when the battle officially began.

**Also:** This installment merely touched upon the time leading up to the start of the Civil War. I have most of it already written, and it was so long that I _decided to make it its own installment_ – so tune in next time!

**Also Also: **And for those of you who were interested in the naughty bit I left out of the 1814 segment of the _World Conference, _I decided that it would be easier to include it after these author's notes for your enjoyment. It has been forever since I have written anything too sexual in nature – as evidenced by my very short bit featured in the installment above (ehhhh…). This features a little plot and some UK/US loving – because Arthur is _King_, and the King gets to top.

**Streamingwords' Poor** (5 page?)** Attempt at A Sex Scene Starts Here:**

* * *

The government officials cramped the small room that they'd arranged to meet in to sign the official treaty. It had required a trip to Ghent in the Netherlands for America and his delegates, though they had been more than willing to make the journey if it meant putting an end to the war with Britain once and for all. America had been forced to dress in a presentable suit of dark brown, his waistcoat just a shade darker than his eyes. He wouldn't have bothered with it, not caring much about how he appeared to the British delegates, but the suit had been a gift from Mrs. Madison and America would have felt ungrateful if he hadn't worn it for the occasion.

Everyone was saying that it was like America had won independence from Britain all over again. The notion struck him as silly and just a little offensive. He'd been working very hard on his own for several years now without paying one bit of attention to the disapproval of the British Empire. America would have continued to do so if events had unfolded in the manner they had, if his people had not decided to go to war (he still firmly denied what England had told him about being responsible for it). Perhaps his biggest issue with the situation was that he was being dragged through these formalities once again, having to sit and smile and be polite to these British officials that were only slightly nicer than they had been the first time around. America could tell that they didn't hold as much respect for his American officials as they pretended to; he'd had extensive years of practicing how to tell the difference between forced politeness and veiled dislike.

After all, he'd grown up with the very nation that had coined the practice for his people.

America's gaze drifted to where England sat on the opposite side of the table. They had spent the last hour avoiding eye contact with one another, not even when they grudgingly shook hands during introductions. England was currently reading over the Treaty, meticulously dissecting each passage once it had been written down. He was much more involved in the process than America. Of course, America could probably have invested his energy into it just as much, but he had people with him that knew and understood these things better than himself, so America was content to let his officials judge for themselves whether the Treaty was fair and balanced.

It took several hours as they bickered back and forth over the details. While it wasn't as impassioned as it had been back in 1783, neither side was willing to relent on issues of importance. At one point, one of his delegates asked America if he had any particular requests, utilizing the alias that he was forced to go by for these meetings. "Mister Jones? Is there anything else that you'd like to add, or do the terms posed by Britannia sound agreeable to you?"

"No, there's nothing. So long as the lands seized by the British in this war are returned to their rightful owner, I could care less about the rest." America murmured, which surprised many of the delegates since it was the first time he'd bothered to speak at all.

They hammered out the rest of the Treaty without any more input from him. When the copies were slid in front of him, America barely looked the documents over as he took up the quill they offered him and quickly scrawled his pseudonym in the appropriate spaces. The only item that even held his attention for very long was the sight of England's own alias there at the bottom in neat, flowing script. America handed everything back to his officials, sat back in his chair, and waited for it all to finally be done.

Finally, at least, he was free. America sighed in relief as everyone shook hands and started to gather their things to leave. He stretched as he stood up from his chair, wincing at a pinch in his shoulder from having sat idle too long. As he trailed after his officials, one of them turned back to blink at him. "Mister Jones? Where are you going?"

"I'm following you. We're leaving now, aren't we?"

"Well, you…" The man's eyes darted between him and the direction of the table. "You still have arrangements to make, sir, with Admiral Kirkland. Were you not listening when it was explained to you?"

America stared at him flatly. "No. I wasn't." He twisted reluctantly around to face the table, seeing that England was still seated there. England did not look at him, but America could tell that he was waiting, expectant and patient. Great. Just great.

His official patted him on the shoulder with a small smile. "Good luck, sir. We shall see you at the docks tomorrow for the trip home." Then he stepped out of the room, and America found that he'd been left alone with no other company besides England.

America crossed his arms over his chest with a frown, wondering when they'd discussed this part during the meeting. He'd been bored, daydreaming, and not paying any attention – that should have been obvious enough to them! By sheer default, whatever obligations he'd been agreed to by his ignorance should be considered void. "What did you get me into?"

"I didn't get you into anything." England murmured pleasantly. He laced his fingers together below his chin, green eyes finally swinging over to fix on America. "You're the one who decided not to listen. I could tell the exact moment when you stopped paying attention."

"That's similar to trickery. As far as I'm concerned, whatever I ended up agreeing to is invalid." America protested, angry that England would use that against him. "The meeting is finished, the Treaty is signed – our business is concluded. Now I'm going home."

He headed for the door when England spoke again. "You can't leave. Not yet, anyway." America glared at him over his shoulder, as England plucked up his copy of the Treaty. "Not only did you verbally agree to my terms, you also signed your name to them as well. To decide to go against them now would be a breach of contract, America, and I doubt your officials would appreciate knowing that you invalidated all their hard work today."

America stiffened all over. Now England was _blackmailing_ him? The sneaky bastard really knew how to play dirty! America narrowed his eyes at the other man. England, immune to his anger, grinned lightly as he pinched the document between two fingers and swung it back and forth in the air. "If reading it is too hard for you, I suppose I could translate it into more common terms? Basically, you're mine for the night, 'Alfred F. Jones'. Didn't I tell you, after that business with France, to be careful when dealing with us conniving Europeans?"

"You bastard." America grit his teeth together. "How the hell could you-?"

"Did you honestly think that I would let you get away with things so easily?" England interrupted, a thick eyebrow lifting on his forehead. He placed the Treaty down on the table in order to skim his fingers over the written words. "You have caused me endless trouble, America. While my government is satisfied to write everything off for the sake of 'letting bygones be bygones', I am not as polite, patient or as tolerant as my subjects."

Despite England's threat to invalidate the Treaty, thereby causing further issues for America's people, the young man was still sorely tempted to allow him to go ahead and do so. He didn't appreciate being placed in this position, even if it was partially his fault for not having been attentive to their deal. America clenched his fists at his sides until the pressure of his fingernails digging into the skin of his palm grounded some of the anger out. His voice was sullen but resigned when he spoke. "Fine. Fine! You're so very clever, Britannia. Well played."

"Thank you. Now lock the door."

America glanced at the door. The lever of the lock was old steel. He turned it silently, hearing the sound of the pins sliding into place within the mechanism. When he faced the table again, America saw that England was sitting back in his chair, watching him with an expression both amused and eager. "What do… what do you want from me?"

"Come over here, America." England patted the table beside his chair with a hand, his smile distracted by whatever thoughts were milling through his mind.

"I don't think that—"

"America." England's smile vanished. "Part of the terms was that you weren't going to argue with me. That's a right that you signed away. Now kindly follow our agreement, belt up, and do as you're told." Then he smiled again, pleasantly patting that spot again in a silent repeat of his command.

Making no effort to mask his displeasure with the situation, America trudged over to where England was seated. He waited for the older man to remove his hand before he sat down on the edge of the table. While he might have been forbidden to talk, that didn't mean that he couldn't effectively glare all the choice things he felt about England right then. America's eyes narrowed down at the blond from his place on the table as he towered above the island nation.

Once he was settled, England rested a hand upon his leg, just above America's knee. Those emerald eyes focused on the appendage as England's fingers began to slide lazily back and forth over the fabric. His fingers were warm; America could feel the heat radiating from them through his trousers, the effect making the flesh around his knee tingle. England spoke quietly. "Now, don't misinterpret my intentions here. I am doing this to teach you an important lesson, America – nothing more, nothing less. Exacting the same price from you that you were so willing to pay France is hardly asking for much."

"It does bother me, though." England continued, as his hand began to slide up the length of America's leg. His fingers dented the flesh of the young man's thigh when they reached it as England experimentally squeezed it. "I should have been the first. You were mine, even after you became a young man. Had I not been so bloody distracted, had I been a little bolder, then it would have been me."

America frowned at his words. He was resolved not to respond to England's efforts with any more enthusiasm than he had for France. America schooled his face into a picture of indifference, watching England with a bored stare. "It wouldn't have been any different. Whether it was you or anyone else. I'm no more interested now than I was with France."

Anger flashed across England's face. He stood up slowly from his chair, narrowing his eyes as they locked with America's. England then let his mouth twist in a slow, mirthless smirk. "Shall we get this over with, then?"

Those cautious caresses from England gave way to his more demanding nature. Fueled by his dislike of America's declaration, England's fingers took on a cruel edge as he began to work the younger man's belt open. He slapped aside America's hands when the younger man tried to detract the efforts, a low growl leaving England's throat as he wrenched the belt loose of the loop. America started to twist his hips away when England got his trousers open, yet the older man proved more adept and before America could act in further protest England's hand had dove into the fabric in order to clench around the intimate length of America's flesh.

America yelped as the sudden contact zapped through his nerve-endings. England's skin was cold to the touch, the sensation of it wrapping around flesh that was far hotter startling enough that America's muscles locked with tension. One of his hands clamped down on England's forearm to prevent him from continuing, while the other pushed firmly against the older man's chest in an attempt to force him back. England, however, anticipated America's efforts to push him away and had braced himself enough that the push was ineffective. His green eyes were smoldering with anger and something else as England growled out. "Not this time, America. If it doesn't bother you one way or another, then why the hell are you fighting it so much?"

"I'm not… not bothered." America gasped out in a strained whisper, adding a complaint. "Your hand is just cold. It's annoying."

"It'll warm up soon enough." England informed him tersely. Already, his grip on America had shifted, and the young man felt the pressure of England's fingers around him as they began to slide over his length with short, demanding strokes. There was clearly no attempt to make this a gentle encounter as England sought to force his flesh to respond.

Much to America's dismay, it was doing precisely that. His body was betraying him, because despite the fact that England was being rough enough that it nearly hurt, it also felt exquisitely good. He made the mistake of looking down at where they were connected, America's eyes locking on the sight of England's hand as it slid over his length, the calloused texture of the older man's fingers creating a delicious friction that his flesh approved. England had freed him completely from his opened trousers, so that there could be no mistaking the intimate act that he had exposed.

America ceased using his hand to push against England's chest, fingers curling over to clench the fabric of the older man's shirt instead. He released his hold on England's forearm so that he could brace it behind him when his head began to spin. It shouldn't have surprised him that England would be good at this – the older man had mentioned that he'd had some experience, far more than America. Still, something about the fact that this was _England_ made it seem more erotic, more dangerous somehow. America's breathing had gone uneven, softly panting as his body went that much further beyond his ability to control it, driven by lust and wants and desires that were more powerful than his willpower.

Then, England performed some skillful trick that caused America's eyes to roll back in his head. The young man didn't bother to mute the moan that tore out of him as a result, as America found that his arm would not even support him anymore. He arched back over the table as the pleasure stole all the stiffness from his spine. America turned his face aside with a gasp, feeling the heat of his cheek as it pressed to the cold wood beneath him.

"Look at you." England teased him at a whisper, his voice husky. "So wanton, so greedy. You're melting right here on the table."

"Don't act… don't act like you don't… don't appreciate the view." America managed between desperate gasps for air. He brought his hand up and bit at his knuckles to muffle some of the wailing noises pouring out of his mouth.

A shadow fell over his face, America opening his eyes to see that England was bending over him. He wasn't sure what possessed him when that face got so close. America's hand withdrew from his mouth in order to curl around the back of that looming head, and even England was surprised when America strained up to fuse their mouths together in a kiss. He wasn't certain at what point their initial anger had mutated to passion, or when England had stopped being rough with him and had actually begun to make it an act of pleasure rather than punishment. England's mouth was hot and wet and eager, clinging to America's with a hungry embrace.

America heard the sound of England's belt opening; the pace on his flesh slowed down as the older man was briefly distracted. It did not alarm him until he felt England's other hand start to probe its fingers lower on his body. His pleasure was nearly killed as America choked on a breath, a hand clamping on England's forearm again as he whispered, with a sudden desperation. "Don't."

England looked at him curiously. His fingers ceased probing as he questioned America with that look. The younger man quickly shook his head, trying to express with his eyes what he did not have the courage to say aloud. "Just… anything else but that, okay?"

"Very well." England acquiesced in a low voice, relenting on his efforts. He returned his focus to America's length instead. The flesh had begun to wither in response to the young man's fear, yet England was able to work it back to life with a few timely strokes. America rewarded his kindness by latching onto England's mouth with another kiss, their tongues fencing together.

Another gasp wrenched out of him, breaking off the kiss when England compromised, as America felt the hot pulse of England's length pressing flush with his own. He fed a sigh of delight into England's mouth as the man began to stroke them together. It nearly caused America to release the tension in his body right then, but he fought that back in order to make it last.

America's eyes were heavy-lidded as he cracked them open to gaze at England's face. The older man was flushed, pleasure coloring his features, those green eyes squeezed shut as he enjoyed the physical sensations of them frictioning together. England was completely unaware of himself in that moment; his hair was becoming matted with sweat at his hairline, tousled even more from America's eager fingers, lacking any semblance of composure. He looked attractive. He looked beautiful.

Shaken by the revelation, America lifted a trembling hand from the table in order to trace his fingers over England's unguarded features. England pressed a clumsy kiss to that wandering palm, before he shifted yet again so that his hips were thrusting over America. The younger man followed suit, pushing up eagerly to meet England, America arching from the table into that firm hand that was driving him hotter, hotter.

England was relentless. It wasn't that much longer before America could not hold himself back any longer. The pleasure in his body had wound tightly, coiling inside him like a spring wound tight. That tension snapped with a loud cry, America's vision going hazy as something snapped inside him and his eager thrusts exploded into a wild, uncontrolled bucking as pleasure crashed over him with gale force.

As he rode through his own climax, America felt England stiffen with his own release. He was quieter than America, with only a strained grunt to signal the moment that England's control broke. Their bodies slid together clumsily, as America clung to the figure hovering over him. When it was over, the tension having flooded out of both of them, America felt the weight of England as the older man sagged on top of him with a shuddering sigh. They remained that way for several minutes. America could feel England's heart thundering with his.

Finally, England withdrew from him, sinking back to sit down heavily in his old chair. When he felt like he'd recovered enough, America sat up from where he'd been laying across the table. He looked down at his shirt only to find that it was now marked with the evidence of his pleasure. His face twisted up wryly. "…Dolly made me this suit."

"It was a nice suit." England murmured. He had already begun to put his clothes back in order, having been spared the same issue as America. "It's ruined now, though."

"Obviously." America muttered darkly as he gingerly plucked at the fabric. "Maybe I should petition for your government to cover the cost of replacing it." He began to shrug out of the soiled garments, removing the jacket and waistcoat. Thankfully, aside from being soaked from sweat, his shirt had been spared. America eyed the buttons of his jacket for a minute, before venturing to ask, quietly, "Hey, Britannia…?"

England had stood up while America was undressing. He recovered the Treaty from where it had been knocked on the floor, inspecting it for any damage. As England's eyes skimmed over the document, he undermined whatever question America had been about to ask by opening his mouth to quickly speak. "Don't mistake me. This doesn't mean that I love you."

America finished getting his remaining garments in order, though the other man's words made him pause. He looked up from where he'd been rolling his sleeves, blue eyes locking on England's. Faintly, America smiled. "Oh, trust me. I know."


	5. Chapter 5  Civil War Part One

Hello again, dear readers! I realize that I am overdue for an update for _From the Ashes _(expect it shortly!). However, _WC:AP _would not leave me alone.

I try to keep anything related to Author's Notes for the end of the installment, but I thought that I should clarify something important right off the bat in regards to how I decided to approach the Civil War. There were actually several ideas that I plotted out and tossed around. I have seen many different methods of it being demonstrated in the works of other authors. However, in the end, this was the one that resonated most for me so I carried through with it. There will be more explanation in the Author's Notes below that will hopefully clear up any other confusion.

Special Note: I had intended for this to be two installments. It has now become three. Part Two of the Civil War series is already finished but I am pacing myself (stalling!) in order to provide myself time enough to flesh out the conclusion in this period of time.

Warnings: Sexual situation (probably the last one for a while - though this one is actually plot-related), and a plot twist that I am not entirely sure how to define that will be asked about in the Author's Notes.

Thank you to everyone who has been taking time to leave me feedback! The speediness of this update is entirely due to all of you and the motivation it gave me!

And now, dear readers: I humbly present to you... The American Civil War.

* * *

_World Conference – 1862_

The subtle differences should have raised an immediate red flag of warning. Not that there were many, because America had done his research, after all. He arrived at the Conference in London fully prepared to see his agenda through. It would take some time to discern for himself what nations would provide him the best advantages if he could convince them to accept his plan. America already had a good idea who would fit that role: Now it was a matter of persuading them to join his cause.

In fact, it was almost too easy.

He had not been there for more than thirty minutes before England, the host nation, came seeking him out. The smaller blond maintained polite distance between them, green eyes looking America carefully over. "You appear to be doing better now. That scene at the last conference left some of us concerned for your well-being."

America was momentarily confused, adjusting his glasses where they had slipped down his nose. "Oh? Well, I couldn't be better now. I guess it passed on its own."

England took hold of his arm, fingers curving on the space above his elbow. It seemed that he'd been restraining himself from making physical contact until that point. The way that he touched America was easy, confident – eager? Interesting. America allowed the other nation to draw him towards the table, England's eyes darting around at the other nations as he spoke quietly to the younger man. "We've all been hearing reports about the state of your country. Your officials have clammed up enough that nothing can be confirmed – but people are saying that your civil war has become horrendously bloody. Is that true?"

"You know how it goes. People tend to blow things out of proportion." America smiled charmingly, a hand coming to rest on England's shoulder. "Sensationalism is contagious. Though, now that you mention it, it is a subject that I'd like to talk with you about some more. Are you free later tonight?"

"I can make some time." England was studying him curiously, as if his behavior was bizarre somehow.

America quickly withdrew his hand and let his smile fade. "I'd appreciate it. We can meet for dinner, or directly after. Just let me know."

England's face turned aside as color filled his cheeks. Apparently the casual offer to share supper had the other man feeling awkward. That was another interesting tidbit that he registered away to ponder over. America waited patiently for his response, as England finally murmured, "All right. I suppose… I suppose there wouldn't be any harm with sharing dinner."

"Great! Then it's decided." America winked. He noticed that the other nations were seating themselves to start the meeting. After a glance at the table, America gestured to a pair of empty chairs. "Shall we take a seat, then?"

"You want to… sit beside me?" England was astonished. Then he cleared his throat, shoving that surprise from his face as he shrugged noncommittally. "Well. It is convenient. We are right here, after all."

America chuckled and dragged out one of the chairs. He motioned for England to take it. The older nation eyed him uncertainly but voiced no complaint over the respectful gesture. As America settled into the seat beside him, England leaned towards him with an upturned eyebrow. "Are you… are you sure that you're really all right? You seem rather off today."

"Is that a bad thing?" America asked wryly.

"No. No, it isn't." England shook his head to reassure him. "I dare say that it is a pleasant change. I've just never seen you acting so… unguarded."

America shrugged, lacing his fingers on the table in front of him as he turned his head to face the nation that was getting ready to speak. "You could be right. I have been feeling different lately. I guess you could say that I've recently had a change of heart." England dropped the subject for now, as the both of them became absorbed in business matters. Still, throughout the meeting, England's eyes would occasionally drift to the nation seated beside him, curious and troubled.

* * *

When America arrived at the dining hall for dinner, he could tell that his suit drew a few looks. He smoothed down the lapels of his white seersucker, sporting a charming grin with teeth that flashed just as pristine a color. America waved to a few nations that greeted him.

One particular young man seemed quite fascinated with him, having stopped what he was saying in mid-sentence to a smallish dark-haired youth dressed in red and black. America might very well have overlooked him completely except for the odd familiarity about him and the weird curl that stuck out in front of his face. Not wanting to be rude, America gave him a little wave and a bright smile. In an unexpected move, the young man got up from his table and hurriedly left the hall. America tilted his head when he saw a bear crawl out from underneath the table to follow the man out the door. No one thought that was out of the ordinary? Odd.

America was becoming irritated with having to wait this long. Where the hell was England in this crowd?

"If I had known it was going to be a formal affair, I might have dressed a little better." England spoke up from behind him, drawing America around to face him. He looked the suit over with approval. "I can't recall the last time I saw you in something like that. What's the occasion?"

America laughed brightly. "There's no occasion. This is just the style back home these days. Dressing like a proper gentleman is all the rage. Though judging by everyone's reaction, I'd probably be better off sticking to my travel clothes."

"Nonsense. It wouldn't hurt them to dress themselves up a bit. Before you know it, everyone will be showing up here in casual attire." England murmured as he shifted his eyes over the crowd of faces. He gestured to the tables. "Shall we sit? We're early enough that most of the good tables are still available."

"I was hoping for a little privacy." America explained as he searched over the selection of tables. He found one that he liked, nodding towards one off in the corner of the room. "How about that one?"

"A good choice."

They walked over to the table, sitting across from one another. England took the chair closest to the wall, apparently not comfortable with leaving his back exposed to the room. America did not protest his selection. He felt perfectly at ease with the buzz of the dining hall behind him. As a waiter came up to their table to take their drink selection, America said pleasantly. "I'll take a whiskey, myself, if you would be so kind."

England blinked. "The same for me please." When the waiter left to fetch their drinks, England leaned in over the table with a tiny smile. "When did you start to develop taste in alcohol? You normally stick to wine or water."

"It's been a rough year. Whiskey sounds suitable." America said wryly. "Besides, you like whiskey, don't you? I get the feeling that you wouldn't have bothered to order one if I didn't."

"That's quite perceptive of you." England sat back in his chair as he looked at the younger nation. "You know… you really have changed quite a bit over this past year. I'm rather surprised."

America propped his elbows on the table in front of him, weaving his fingers together. He rested his chin upon them as he smiled hopefully over to England. "Not in any unpleasant ways, I should hope?"

England shook his head. "No, not at all. I'm impressed. Who would have thought that it would take a civil war to cure your ills?"

"I wouldn't say that I am completely cured." America's smile faded, eyes dropping to the tabletop. "In fact, with the way that things are going, I'm on the verge of becoming worse than ever. That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually."

"You… want some advice?" England asked curiously. The waiter returned with their drinks, and then promptly left when finished, giving them more time to decide on their meals since neither of them had even bothered to touch their menus yet.

America took up his whiskey. He tilted back the glass, downing half of the contents in one swallow. The burn of it made him gasp. America set his drink firmly down on the tabletop, eyes quite serious as they locked with England's. "Actually… I was hoping for an alliance."

England's glass wavered, whiskey nearly splashing over the rim in his astonishment. He put the drink down to avoid spilling it, looking at America was if certain he'd misheard. "…What?"

"An alliance." America said quietly, his hands resting upon the table as he peered across at England. "I'll need help if I'm going to win this war, Britannia. Their resources vastly outweigh my own. Out of all the other nations, I wanted to ask you first." America's right hand reached over the table to take hold of England's arm. "You're the British Empire. You have the power and resources that can help me defeat my enemies. I've tried to keep this contained from everyone as much as possible but if I don't act now then I am going to fall."

"America, I…" England paused. He frowned down at the hand on his arm, withdrawing it from under America's fingers. England picked up his menu in an effort to delay this course of the conversation. "Let's order ourselves something to eat. I'm famished, and all of this talk is making my head spin."

America's eyes narrowed briefly, a flash of irritation that England missed while perusing the selection of food. Then he brightened, plucking his menu up from the table in front of him. "Sure, Britannia. That sounds good to me. What would you recommend?"

They ordered their food and ate it in silence that was only broken by neutral small talk. England carefully avoided any effort on America's part to continue with the topic of an alliance. It frustrated America considerably, knowing that he was being thwarted from broaching the exact subject that he had come to the Conference to discuss with England. They had a few more whiskeys during dinner while America waited patiently for the older nation to finish his food. Finally, the delays proved to be too much for him to endure any longer, as America scowled at the other man. "You can't keep putting it off all night. Will you at least let me pitch an offer to you?"

"America…" England sighed heavily. "You're in the middle of a civil war. Obviously, you are not thinking normally. I could understand your desire to appeal for some sympathy, but you made it very clear in your last letter to me how adamant you were about me not becoming involved in this affair. Now you show up here, completely out of the blue, suddenly asking me to ally myself with you in this war?"

"That's about the sum of it, yes." America nodded. He threw a hand up into the air. "I told you that my resources aren't going to be enough to last through this war. My request was pretty straightforward. I'm prepared to do what is necessary to persuade you to join my side; if you want land, resources, or money – I'll give it to you. I'm even… even prepared to grant you a portion of my territory for your efforts."

England stared at him incredulously. "Now I _know_ that you've gone barking mad. You're offering bits of your _land_? To _me_?"

America spread his hands out. "It would be helpful to the Empire, wouldn't it? You could have a territory back on your old colonial soil, putting you on both sides of the Atlantic again. Just think about how beneficial that would be. Plus, you can build a nice summer home there to get away from all this London rain. Come on, Britannia – how could this offer not appeal to you?"

"It's a smashing offer, America. It's such a splendid offer that it is simply too good to be true." England murmured, speaking rapidly to explain his words before America could question them. "We are just now at a point where we're getting along. Things have been going – if not perfectly – at least well between us. I would rather avoid making any solid arrangements or treaties with you right now while you're under this strain, so that it does not ruin our peace later."

America slumped in his seat in disappointment. England added, more gently. "I will, however, do what I can to assist you. Just tell me where you need resources sent and I will provide you with whatever you require. That much, at least, I am prepared to do. If this war reaches the point where my intervention cannot be avoided, then we can make our arrangements when that time comes."

"I appreciate your offer for the resources, Britannia, but I really think—"

"I'm sorry, America." England said firmly. He stood up from his chair, dropping his napkin down onto his plate. "I feel for your situation and I am sympathetic that you are in these circumstances, but that is my final answer on the matter. If you'll excuse me, I have work to attend to in my office here at the complex. Please forward me the information on where to send those supplies. I'll have the paperwork written up by tonight."

"Britannia, I—"

"Good night, America. I will see you at the meeting tomorrow." England said politely, yet the tone was lined in steel. He wasn't going to budge.

America frowned as he watched the older nation leave the room, before slapping his hand on the table in frustration. Apparently he was going to need to employ some new tactics if he was going to get any results. Fortunately, with the subtle hints that England had been unknowingly dropping him the whole day, America had a pretty good idea what to do to get what he wanted.

* * *

The hour was late, but America went knocking on the door to England's office anyway. He expected that the island nation would still be working. America waited until he heard England call out. "Come in?"

Clearly, England wasn't expecting any visitors. When he saw that it was America who entered, he didn't seem pleased. America smiled faintly at his response. "I just thought I'd bring you that information you wanted on the way to my room. I wouldn't have bothered dropping by but I saw that your light was still on."

"I see. Well, I am drawing up the papers right now, so that will be handy to have." England's attention turned back down to the book in front of him as he wrote steadily, his quill scratching over the paper. Breaking that visual connection with America was the older nation's way of discouraging any continued conversation.

America reached into the pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a slip of paper. He crossed over to the front of England's desk and placed it down next to the other man's idle hand. "This should be everything that you need, yes?"

England stopped his writing in order to turn the paper over. He read it briefly, an eyebrow quirking as he looked up at America. "You do realize that this is in the southern territory, right? The Confederate zone?"

"Uh, yes." America's smile wavered at the question. "I… thought that it would be a good strategy. You know, like a form of mental warfare? If they see all the resources coming into the harbor, just think of what that will do for their morale."

"That's an odd strategy." England mumbled, before shrugging lightly. "It's your war, though. You know the situation there better than I do. If that is how you want to play your hand then I suppose there's no helping it." He tucked the paper away into the corner of the book that he wrote in. "Very well. That should be all that I need, America. Thank you for being so prompt with it. I hope that you have a good night."

America studied that lowered head for a minute or two while England kept writing, before trying to snare England's attention again. "Actually, I was hoping that I could persuade you to re-think my offer."

America placed his hand lightly upon that opened book so that he could spread out his fingers. That successfully interrupted the flow of that quill. England looked up at him with a frown, clearly not appreciating his persistence. "Do you mind? I have work to do and I have already given you my answer."

"What if I upped the ante?" America asked. He peeled his hand up from that book, hooking a few fingers into the knot of his bowtie. England's eyes were drawn to the younger man's throat as that bowtie came loose. America smiled, something devious lurking in the depths of his eyes. "Perhaps all you need is a better offer?"

England's quill sagged as he watched the movements of America's fingers. With a swift tug, America pulled his bowtie from around his neck. He teasingly dangled it above England's book before letting it drop onto the open pages. America gave the older nation a curious scrutiny as he began to deftly open the buttons of his collar, the tip of his tongue jutting out of the corner of his mouth. "Is there something else that I could give you? Something… that you want?"

"No. Of course not." England answered too quickly. He might have verbally denied it, but America could see the spark that had invaded the older man's eyes. The green had begun to smolder, giving away his interest in the display. "Though… If you're determined, I suppose I could hear a new proposal?"

"I'm not great with diplomacy." America pouted slightly. He slid his glasses off, placing them carefully aside on the desk. His hands landed on the desk again, this time to balance him as he pressed upwards, a knee coming on top of it. England was presented with his best sultry smile as America closed in on him with a slow crawl across the desk, the young man's face hovering in front of England's as he murmured intimately. "I tend to go right for what I want. It saves time and all that verbal nonsense. What about you, Britannia? Do you ever just go for what you want?"

England was torn between disbelief and desire. He searched America's face for some sign of trickery as he placed the quill down. "Are you…? Is that an invitation, America?"

"Would you prefer that I put it in writing?" America drawled teasingly. That humor faded into a sober expression as the younger man took hold of England's left hand with his own. He pulled it up to his mouth, lips touching a gentle caress over the man's knuckles. "Britannia. Let me give you what I know you want – what we _both_ want."

A shuddering breath slipped out of England at the feeling of America's mouth against his skin. The doubt all but drained from his eyes, replaced by heated longing. He tugged his hand free of America's grip in order to take hold of the younger man by the lapels of his jacket. His voice was tense. "You had better not cry foul later."

"I won't cr—" That was all that America was able to get out. Those hands clutching his coat yanked him forward, lips becoming swallowed up by England's. The angle of the kiss was all wrong, a clumsy collision of hungry mouths and moist heat. America tilted his head just like _that_ to fix it, which only prompted England to clench his jacket that much tighter.

America's fingers sank into the tousled, sandy blond hair of the man currently devouring his lips. The tips of them pressed against the back of England's head – silent permission for more and more. He fed on the pleasured exhale from the older man, their kiss already noisy from moisture. America shifted where he sat on the desk without breaking the connection of their mouths. He scooted forward so that he could dangle his legs on either side of England, practically doubled over. America's spine sent a flare of pain up its length in protest of the position.

England apparently understood the reason for his squirming. He stood up from his chair without breaking the link of their mouths, nestling between America's thighs instead. His tongue probed the rim of America's mouth in a demand for entry, plunging in the very second that the younger nation's lips yielded. England groaned low in his chest at the flavors he discovered inside. America knew that he probably tasted like the whiskey that they had been drinking before. Apparently the older man found the mingled flavors of his mouth and the alcohol to be agreeable.

While England's tongue fenced with his, America slid his fingers out of the man's hair in order to trace a path down England's body. He felt the subtle trembles, that slender but sturdy frame with all its muscles compact and packaged prettily. America began to unbutton England's shirt, though it took some time since he couldn't get away from the kiss to see what he was doing. Giving up after only a few were opened, America slid his hand behind the fabric to dance a caress over England's exposed collarbone.

Gasping, the older man tore his mouth free of the kiss as America's touch made him jolt all over. The way that his face was flushed with desire was actually quite an attractive look for him. America smirked appreciatively as he resumed his work, dropping his eyes down to watch his progress with that shirt. His lips felt swollen from the kiss, a tingle surging through them. "See? Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

England braced his hands on America's upper thighs, swaying a bit unsteadily on his feet. His gaze swung up from watching America tug his shirt free from his trousers to stare the younger man in the eyes. "Why… are you doing this? Why now? You've been so adamant in the past about your limitations - what's changed, America?"

"You're in need. I'm in need. Does there have to be another reason?" America asked him quietly as he danced the tips of his fingers across England's bare chest. The act brought a wave of goose bumps on the surface of the flesh. Even while questioning the act, England was still managing to enjoy it.

"There are never any simple reasons with you." England whispered, spine arching into the touch. His fingers clenched America's thighs in his excitement, as he growled out a low warning. "I don't think you fully comprehend what you're getting into here. France may have coddled you with pretty words and patience – I, however, am a completely different type of lover. Do you think that you can handle me at my worst?"

"Give me your worst, then – or would it be your best?" America's hands crept together at the base of England's stomach, the tips of his fingers curling over the waistline of the older man's trousers, prevented from sinking in any further by the barrier of England's belt. "Show me how an empire makes love, Britannia."

That taunting snapped that brittle tether of self-control in England. White teeth flashed in a grimace of need as his left hand flashed up and seized America by the hair. The pressure of his grip was firm yet not entirely painful. He'd even caught that stubborn lock in his hold, America wincing as England drug him forward over the edge of the desk. It started to hurt more when the older man did not relent; America was left with no choice but to sink down in front of him under the control of that hand. He drew in a quick breath as his knees touched down on the floor, not needing to put much thought into what England's intentions were.

He could see how eager the older man was just at a glance, even more so now that he had a closer view. America's head tilted back so that he could see up the length of England's body all the way to his face. Those jade eyes were intense enough to speak the silent command that England's mouth did not. America wet his lips as he began to unlatch England's belt.

* * *

America's body was on the verge of exhaustion when England pierced it for the third time. They had made a mess of the desk already, all of England's precious documents scattered across the floor. The same floor that they were on right now when England claimed him again; he was showing himself to be an insatiable lover. America turned his face into the rug, biting his lip to hold in the moan of half protest, half want. He wasn't sure that he could do this again so soon – yet England was doing an excellent job at proving him wrong.

He shuddered as England's teeth bit at the nape of his neck. It was already going to be littered with marks, along with other more tender parts of flesh. America's hand stuck out blindly to brace his body as England took him just as roughly as the last time. His fingers crumpled up a piece of parchment that had a thoroughly itemized list written on it, the sweat on his palm causing the ink to bleed and obscure the text. As America started to sag when his arms were too weak to support him, England's hands forced him back, forced him closer. He couldn't escape that embrace, even if he'd wanted to. Thankfully, everything was starting to feel wonderfully good again once England had worked up a solid rhythm, and America's brain became unhinged beyond the capacity for thought.

* * *

England let his head fall back against the front of the desk with a sated sigh. His fingers caressed through America's hair with tender strokes, the younger nation's head resting in England's lap where they both lingered on the floor. America's eyes blinked languidly, the muscles of his body having become so relaxed that he had to fight not to doze off. He surveyed the mess around them, smiling faintly. "I think we ruined whatever it was you were working on."

"It's all right." There was a softened edge to England's voice, unable to work up concern for the ruined documents. "I can always write it out again. It was a worthy sacrifice."

America made a musing sound in his throat. They had only halfway bothered getting dressed, his cheek rubbing over the rough texture of England's trousers. "Are you sure? I could help—"

He was silenced as England pressed a finger gently to his lips. "I'm positive, America. Honestly, right now, I hardly give a damn about them." The older man curled his fingers over to skim them over the curve of America's face. There was a question that he seemed to want to ask. It hung in the air between them.

Curious about it, America rolled over so that he could peer up at England. "What?"

"I don't know what to make of this." England murmured quietly. "I have always been careful around you since you left; so very careful not to leave myself vulnerable to you in any way that might make me victim to your usual indifference towards me. This, though… This changes everything."

"How so?"

"You came to me. You _want_ me." England's head shook slowly back and forth, as if in disbelief. "I never thought that it would happen. I've waited… waited for this day for a very long time." His eyes were dancing with warmth as he stared down at America. "You don't know how long I've waited for you, America."

America eased up to sit. He smiled lightly at England, pushing some of the man's matted hairs out of his face. "What does the past matter? We're right here now in this moment, aren't we? It's better to feel in the present."

"The present?" England took hold of America's face in both hands. Those green eyes were solemn as he searched deep in blue ones, his sudden whisper impassioned. "America, I love you. Past, present, future – whatever you want. I have waited and I have wanted and I have loved. What weighs on my mind, this very moment, is: Do you love me now as well?"

America was stunned by the confession. He eyed England warily – that had certainly not factored into his calculations for seducing the older nation at all. What could he possibly say, in this circumstance? America forced a smile, eyes squinting shut with it as he lied through his teeth. "Yes. Yes, I do."

* * *

They made it a point to arrive separately at the meeting hall the next morning, despite having slept in the same bed the previous night. It had given America time to change, to save any speculation on why he'd be showing up in the same rumpled suit that he'd been wearing the day before. England had been the one to impress the importance of keeping up appearances with the other nations – their tryst didn't need to become public knowledge yet. America stood against the wall as some of the others went by, limbs folded comfortably as he waited.

It didn't take long for England to arrive. He spotted the younger nation nearby and the warm expression that softened his face might as well have given their secret away. His smile was faint, green eyes radiant with emotion as he stood next to the taller man. "Good morning, America."

"Why, good morning, Britannia. Did you sleep well?" America played along, toying with a smirk as his eyes teased the other man.

"Quite well, yes. Thank you for asking." England glanced towards the door to the meeting hall. "Shall we go in?"

"Of course." America let England enter ahead of him as they fell into the flow of the crowd. His hand touched lightly to the base of England's spine in a subtle show of connection, catching a glimpse of the older man's blush in response. They sat together just as they had done the previous day, though England did not maintain such a forced distance away in his chair.

America leaned in as France entered the room, murmuring into England's ear. "There's France. Do you think that he would be willing to help me as well?"

England frowned, glaring in the direction of his long-time rival. "Perhaps. Though I can't imagine why you would want to appeal to that bastard."

"Just think about it: If we can get France to support the war, then he could shoulder some of the cost. It will tax the two of us even less and he will not even have the benefit of enjoying the spoils later." America whispered persuasively. "We can sign over a port or something to him later to make him happy."

"That does make sense." England admitted. His hand landed on America's arm, lightly gripping his sleeve. "I don't want you dealing with him, though. Leave it to me. I know how to handle that bastard without allowing him to maneuver us into any situation that might go against our interests."

America smirked, bringing his mouth close enough to England's ear that the older man could feel the movements of his lips. "Are you sure that you're not just feeling possessive?"

England shivered lightly. He pulled his head back quickly, trying to remain composed in the presence of the others, hissing quietly. "Stop that, idiot. Kindly behave yourself." England adjusted his jacket around him with a delicate sniff, adding belatedly, "And… perhaps I am. Feeling possessive, I mean. Just do us both a favor and don't let it go to your head."

"Yes, sir. I'll do my best." America teased him with a wink. He settled back in his chair with a broad smile of satisfaction as Germany began to handle the attendance records. Things were going according to plan. If he could get France on his side as well, then America knew that he was going to be unstoppable. Once he had their pledges in writing then he would be set.

Then he'd be able to finally have what rightfully belonged to him.

* * *

"Frankly, I am astonished that you would look to me to help you in this matter." France declared merrily, open with his pleasure. He looked between England and America with a broad smile once he had finished signing his name onto the paper England had written their agreement on, cementing their pact. "Big brother France is always more than happy to help his fellow nations when they are in need."

The three of them were seated in England's study. He had brought them over personally to his house, the grand manor nestled a few blocks away from the Conference's complex. America looked around the room with interest. This place was a grand mesh of different cultures; African plants, Indian silk pillows, a Turkish rug underfoot. Every piece of it was a symbol of some distant colony that lay far from the shores of England's island and yet still remained a trophy for the man that sat behind the large desk that dominated the room.

England had ignored all of their compliments about his home or its decorum. He was entirely business, a flawless professional as he held court from the leather cushions of his towering high-backed chair. "Don't get too carried away. I'm well aware that you are currently involved in a war with Mexico and that most of your force is invested there. America has already agreed to purchase several ships from my navy, though I honestly don't have more to spare. Naturally, any goods and services that you pledge to provide will be met with monetary compensation."

"Of course, of course." Laughing lightly, France patted America on his arm. "I am glad to provide you what you need, _mon ami_. And if you cannot afford to pay up front, I can gladly make arrangements for… later payment."

America chuckled. He poked playfully at France's hand. "Ahhh, you're a slick one, France. As usual, I'm going to have to watch myself around you."

With shameless flirtation, France fenced his finger with America's with a lazy wink. "_Non_. You should never try to go against the feelings of the moment, America. It is better to go with the flow of passion, as a—"

While they had been teasing back and forth, England had slid a drawer of his desk open as he stared at them blankly. With no change in his expression, he silently placed a rather lethal looking letter-opener on top of the desk in front of him. France took the hint and the warning with a widening of his eyes. "Ah. Well, I probably _should_ be returning to the complex, since it is getting late."

France hastily stood up with a nervous smile. "I expect that you will have the paperwork finalized by tomorrow, Britannia? You need nothing else from me tonight, _oui_?"

"No, France, I don't need anything else from you tonight." England said mildly. His index finger tapped steadily upon the silver edge of that letter-opener as he stared balefully at France.

"Very well. _Bonsoir_, then, my old friend." He bent to kiss America on the cheeks in parting, caught a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye, and changed his mind. France patted him on the head instead in as platonic a manner as he could. "_Bonsoir_, America."

"Uh, _bonsoir_, France." America responded politely.

"Your accent has improved, _mon ami_!" France said delightedly. "It has—" He threw his hands up in surrender and hurried towards the door when England growled. "Okay! I am leaving, I am leaving – _Mon Dieu_!"

The valet was waiting outside to escort France from the house. England did not relax until he was sure that the other nation had left the property, releasing his tension with a weary sigh as England slumped in his chair. "That man… Even his breathing offends me."

"You didn't have to scare him off like that." America told him with a faint smile. "I can handle France on my own."

"I know. It's just hard for me to tolerate him, except in extremely small doses." England murmured, curling his hands over the arms of his chair as he pushed himself up out of it. He walked around the edge of the desk to where America was seated, bracing a hand on the back of the chair so that he could lean over, giving the younger man a kiss now that they had some privacy. "As many times as I have tried to kill him, he just keeps finding other places to infect – like the Plague."

America had absently turned his face up to receive the kiss, frowning slightly. "You're sure that he will stick to the agreement, though?"

"Yes." England dropped his hand away from the chair when he was unable to engage America into more than a brief kiss. "France will help you because he knows that he will have to contend with my ire if he doesn't." He straightened, plucking at the younger man's sleeve. "Enough about him. There is something that I want to show you, America. Will you come with me?"

Still dubious about the security of France's agreement, America shook England off his sleeve with a scowl. "Fine. What is it?" He ignored the faint look of hurt on England's face at the cold response as America vacated his chair. "Well?"

"It's… through here." England pointed out the door. He led the way out, America trailing behind him as they walked down the hallway together. Stopping in front of a door, England looked at him closely as he placed a hand on the doorknob, his unhappiness with America's lack of enthusiasm evolving into a tiny smile. "Do you remember?"

"Remember?"

England twisted the knob and pushed the door open. America stepped into the threshold beside the older man in order to peer inside. There was nothing very outstanding about the bedroom. The wallpaper was blue, peeling in some spots with age. A dusty green blanket was lying on a well-made bed that didn't look like it had been slept on or even touched for several years. America saw a faded painting with some horses on it – what was he supposed to be looking for here? "It's… nice?"

"I haven't changed it." England said quietly. America glanced at him and saw that the older man was staring wistfully into the bedroom, a hand curled on the wood of the doorframe. "While it did cross my mind several times to gut it completely, I was never able to bring myself to do so. You stayed in it only a little while, but it… it was so full of you." England met his eyes wryly. "Am I not rather pathetic?"

America shrugged a shoulder as he gave the dusty, stagnant room another sweep. "I guess it doesn't hurt to be nostalgic now and then. Though it's a little obsessive, too. Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"Yes, I…" England blushed, nudging America back so that he could swing the door shut, closing the aged bedroom out of sight. "I thought it might seem touching. Now I merely feel silly. Just put it out of your mind if you'd like."

"Okay, if you want." America scratched at the back of his head. He wasn't sure what England was expecting out of him by showing him something like this. "Anything else that you wanted to show me? It's getting late and I'm starting to feel rather tired."

"I did want to show you the work I've done with the garden, but if you're tired than I suppose it can wait for another day." England tried to sound disinterested in the idea, though America could tell that the other man was looking forward to a positive answer.

America waved him on. "We'll go see the gardens if you want."

England led him downstairs, through the back door into the garden. America saw that there were rows upon rows of hedges. The colors of the roses were obscured due to the twilight sky and a lack of light. He slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers as they strolled over a path of pebbles. England asked him, tentatively, "Are you all right, America? You've gotten very distant these last few hours. Is something the matter?"

America sighed. He forced a sheepish smile that he didn't really feel. "I guess I'm just feeling low on energy today. Some days, the war doesn't seem to tax anything out of me; other days, I have a hard time just staying on my feet. And I'll admit that I've been feeling a little… off today. Something is bothering me but I can't place what it is. An annoying itch at the back of my head that just won't quit. So I'm sorry if I seem distracted or… or short-tempered."

"No, it's fine. I should not have dragged you here without taking your needs into better consideration." England said. He shook his head, internally chiding himself as he looked apologetically up at America. "Forgive me for being so unkind."

"Don't worry about it." America assured him. They had come to stand under a cluster of trees, the lights of the house and the moon spilling through the leaves. America turned to rest his hands on England's sides with a mild smile. He couldn't leave the man beating himself over something like this. And the apology made America realize that he'd been behaving too impersonally – that wasn't going to work if he wanted to maintain this momentum.

America drew England in closer, smiling at him with a low murmur. "Though you are kind of a royal bastard, you know."

"Indeed." England agreed quietly. He let himself be pulled closer, leaning in towards the warmth of America as the older man started to stretch up for a kiss.

Their impending moment of affection was interrupted as a shot was fired off not more than a few yards away. The branch beside America's head exploded in a mess of splinters, bits of wood flying all over the place. America lurched back from it, tripping over a root behind him and spilling back onto the ground with a pained grunt. England had recoiled from it as well, though he fared better, maintaining his footing as his widened eyes swiveled towards the source of the blast. Someone was attacking them!

They heard the rifle cocking again, though their attacker was standing in a thick clutch of shadows. England's hands lifted in the air to show their obscured assailant that he wasn't armed. He was alarmed and angry, glowering in that direction. "Stop shooting! Neither of us have any weapons."

America groaned as he tried to pick himself up off the ground. He rubbed at his rear end, all of that flesh now sore from the impact of his landing. His face shifted in the direction of their attacker and the young man went tense all over as if seized by sudden fear.

The back door to England's manor stood wide open, light spilling out from within. It was blocked briefly as America saw the young man from the Conference coming running outside. He stopped short of where the attacker stood, bent over as he panted heavily. "You could have… could have waited for me, damnit!"

"Canada? What in bloody hell is going on here? What is the meaning of this?" England noted America's reaction, wondering what had spooked him. He shouted demandingly at the armed figure. "Only a coward would hide during a fight. Show yourself!"

Scoffing, their attacker stepped forward out of the shadows. "If you want to lecture someone on cowardly behavior, you might want to talk to that bastard beside you."

England froze at the sound of that voice. His eyes pulsed wider with shock, followed closely by confusion, as he looked between the fallen young man beside him and the armed one now standing a few paces in front of him. He choked out, roughly. "This isn't… This isn't _possible_!"

"Unfortunately, it is." The newly arrived America said, hefting his rifle up to rest against his shoulder. He was dressed in a gray military uniform, tattered by warfare already and dirty from use. Even his face, drawn and ragged, was smeared with dirt, as if it had been some time since he had bothered to wash it off. The cap on his head was slightly askew - the golden hair was shaggy but unmistakable, especially that stubborn lock that stood at attention against the band of his hat. America did not have his glasses on his face but those sky blue eyes were the ones that England knew well – cautious, guarded, and right now burning with anger at the man sitting next to England's feet.

The uniform clad America began to approach, his steps slow and deliberate as he stalked towards the other. "I had thought it pretty strange when I didn't see you on the battlefield at all. At first, I figured that maybe you'd just gone into hiding. It only occurred to me a little while ago that I could no longer feel your presence anywhere nearby. You snuck away, like some conniving little rat, to try and petition for help, didn't you?"

England slowly tore his gaze away from the militarized America, silently questioning the one beside him with his eyes. With a heavy sigh, the man stood up from the ground. He made a show of brushing grass off the pristine white of his suit while his face twisted in distaste. When he spoke up, his voice wasn't the same. England heard, for the first time, the deep Southern drawl of the man he had been deceived into believing was America. "Well, shucks – y'all have gone and caught me red-handed."

* * *

"Thanks." America said gratefully as Canada handed him a glass full of water. He drank it down in several thirsty swallows.

The only sounds breaking the silence was of him consuming the water and the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in England's parlor. They had all ended up there once coming in from the garden. America had dragged his southern imposter inside with Canada's assistance. Canada had sent a note to the complex, reclaiming France to the residence so that they could unravel the unusual situation.

Confederate America sat calmly in the chair that the North American brothers had forced him into. He clasped his hands upon his lap, one leg crossing over the other as he looked at each of the other nations one at a time. Canada stood near the door to keep it blocked in case the imposter tried to make an escape, torn between glaring at the man and checking on his brother with concern. France sat primly on the sofa beside America. He had reacted with appropriate astonishment upon seeing the two doppelgangers in England's manor. Having been summoned mainly to mediate the interrogation of the imposter, France's eyes bounced between the two Americas, then to England.

England had promptly gone to the little bar in the corner of the parlor and helped himself to three straight glasses of whiskey. The island nation was in denial, or just in shock, judging by how often he looked over his shoulder at the two Americas only to shake his head. He had a firm grip on his bottle and his glass, refilling it in silence with a trembling hand as France ended their silence. "So. It would appear that you have been conducting some shady business here in London, Mister… er..."

France's forehead was marred with a line of confusion. "What are we expected to call you, anyway? Confederate America? Confederacy? South? Addressing you both as 'America' will get confusing and bothersome."

"'Confederacy' or 'South' would suit me just fine," The southern man drawled pleasantly, "though I actually don't mind simply being addressed by the good Christian name given to me at my birth." He raised his eyebrows up charmingly. "I took the name Adam Jones – Jones, naturally, being the same alias as my northern counterpart here; Adam came directly from the Bible. I thought it would be fitting. After all: Adam was created as the first of Man by God under special circumstances and being brought to life like that is certainly something that I can identify with."

"I see." France said mildly. "Very well… Adam. It would seem that you – and America - owe us an explanation. I know that I am not the only one in this room that is confused as to how this has been made possible."

America was slumped heavily in the support of the sofa. He looked exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes made his eyes dull, though the anger was still fueling him as he glared at the man across from him. "I wish I knew. The last conference, I became horribly ill. It was a crippling sickness that I have never known previously and hope never to know again." His eyes touched on England's back briefly. "After England brought me over to New York, Canada helped to get me the rest of the way home. I couldn't do anything. I slept like the dead for three whole days, not even able to wake up to eat or work."

He paused to wet his lips, eyes squinting with memory. "I woke up that fourth day and felt like I was getting torn apart. There was nothing I could do to make it stop. It felt like something was inside me, trying to tear its way out, and that I might very well burst open. Then, one day – I think it was the afternoon – I literally _did_ burst open. I can't even… I can't even describe what it felt like. I doubt I could put it into the right words to express the agony I felt that day." America shuddered visibly as he recalled it.

"When it… when the pain had ebbed enough for me to even have any awareness of the world around me, I looked up above me and thought that I had died. I saw myself standing there, covered in blood, confused as hell. It was only when understanding dawned on that looming face, when I saw the eyes fill up with everything that was not _myself_, that I knew it was not some bizarre death dream. It was _him_ – it was this… this… aberration."

Adam smiled serenely. "Imagine my surprise to find myself just suddenly here one day. Luckily, I was born ready to undertake my purpose; born with knowledge, the ability to speak, even my own distinct personality – I snatched it all away for myself. Of course I knew that there would be problems if I waited around for old America here to put himself back together. So I left him lying there in pieces in a rather nasty pool of blood and quickly made my way down south to find my _true_ people. And since my eyesight was a little fuzzy, I decided to take these as well." He touched a pair of fingers to the earpiece of his eyeglasses.

"It nearly killed him." Canada said darkly from his station near the door. "It _would_ have killed him, if I hadn't shown up in time to help America. His healing took weeks. Weeks! While you had already skipped down south to rub elbows with your damned Confederates."

"He survived." Adam shrugged indifferently, not bothered at hearing how close his northern counterpart came to death. "Then him and his Lincoln began fighting back in earnest. They've been using their industries and heavy trade to try and strangle us off from having enough resources to maintain ourselves for the war. I couldn't very well just hang around waiting for the North to sever our last strand of hope; that, of course, being assistance from outside sources. I came here at the urging of my President to secure aid from the European nations."

His head cocked to the side, as Adam's charming smile went sly. "Now, it isn't my fault that y'all mistook me for America. I had not arrived here planning to pose as him, but when everyone received me so kindly I realized that playing along was going to be the fastest, most direct route to getting what I wanted. What I now _have_, I should add." He pointed a finger back and forth to England and France. "Y'all have already entered into an agreement with me, after all. My associates and I sure will appreciate your generosity."

"What?" America looked sharply at the two older nations. "You two entered into a _pact_ with him?"

"We did not know that he was an imposter." France said sadly in his defense. England still had not said a word. He had at least put the whiskey bottle down, glass curled in against his chest as England glowered towards the nearby wall. "Britannia and I believed that we were pledging our support to you. It did not even cross my mind to consider that there could be a second America running around to create this sort of havoc."

"I made myself very clear to all of you that I did not want any foreign interference in this war." America snapped, anger increasing his volume as he pushed off the sofa to glare at France, then England. "This is a civil war – _my_ war – and Europe is _not_ welcome to become involved in it."

Adam lifted a hand, curling his fingers over as he began to smugly examine his fingernails. "Well, it's too late now. They're bound to the contract whether they like it or not. To be honest I was rather surprised that it was so easy to dupe these older, wiser nations. I had been waiting for you guys to catch on at any moment."

America glared at the southerner, then addressed England harshly. "Where is the copy of the agreement?"

England stirred from the deep thoughts that had consumed him. His green eyes blinked cautiously at America as he said, quietly, "America, I…"

"The _document_, Britannia." America said through gritted teeth. "I want to see it. I want to know what you all agreed on."

"I'll… go fetch it." England set his glass down on the little bar. He hurried out of the room to retrieve the written agreement. When he returned, England twisted his hands around it in agitation, reluctant to hand it over to America. "We didn't… I swear that I had no idea…"

He trailed off when America's hand stuck out towards him in a silent demand. England's shoulders slumped in defeat as he put the rolled up document into America's outstretched palm. As America began to unroll it, England retreated to the other chair in the middle of the room next to where Adam was seated, folding down into the seat and immediately lowering his face into his hands.

America stood reading the document for several minutes. He had to squint in order to read it without his glasses, a few of the passages so convoluted that they required a second look before America could understand what they meant. Something this complicated had to have been written by England; there was no way that his doppelganger could manage something this verbose. Everyone was watching him intently for his response. America could feel his jaw clenching with increasing anger as he read through to the bottom.

His eyes flicked up from the document to lock on Adam, voice dangerously placid. "You were going to sign Massachusetts over to the Empire?"

"Sure, why not?" Adam shrugged lightly, shifting in his seat to change positions as he switched the crossing of one leg demurely over the other. "I figured that would be a gesture of goodwill on behalf of the Confederate nations; that's where their trouble with you began, after all. It sounded like a fitting piece of irony."

America smirked sardonically before dropping his gaze back to the paper. "It's fortunate, then, that I arrived just in time. If I had known there was risk of losing the original thirteen to Britain again, I would have had no choice except to burn the land and salt the ground." Without even bothering to spare a glance at England, he handed the document over to the other nation. "This was quite a lucrative deal for you, Britannia. No surprise that you would jump on an opportunity like this."

England's voice was thick with remorse as he lifted his head and accepted the paper from America. The cold humor directed at him by America left him bothered. "I'll admit that I was initially skeptical, considering how good the agreement sounded. Your Confederate counterpart, though, was very convincing in his pitch."

Adam laughed, glancing slyly to England beside him as he drawled. "Ah, well, I dunno about that. It took how many 'pitches' to convince you? Three? Four? You were a hard nut to crack, Britannia." He reached over to let his fingers dance teasingly up the outside of England's arm in a not-so-subtle gesture of intimacy.

That earned him a hard look from England. His hand was slapped aside with vicious force, as England snapped hotly. "Don't you dare touch me, you bloody wanker! You _deceived_ me."

America had not missed the insinuation made by Adam, nor, for that matter, had France. His eyes shifted between the young man and England with a frown as France posed a hesitant question. "Britannia… Did you actually 'close the deal' with our crafty Confederate visitor?"

England's sullen, angry silence spoke volumes. The island nation kept his eyes averted from the others, arms folding tightly across his chest as he glared off to the wall. France groaned, covering his face with the palm of his hand at England's silent confirmation. "_Mon Dieu_. And you accuse me of letting _my_ hormones cloud my judgment."

"Now, now – let's not be hard on poor Britannia." Adam told them brightly, hands waving in the air. "I doubt he could tell the difference between me and my dusty, old counterpart. While I didn't exactly _tell_ him that I wasn't America, he didn't seem to notice the differences few as they are. It's the natural actor in me, I guess."

"So you didn't lie, but you didn't tell the truth?" Canada asked in a tense voice. His eyes were on fire with simmering anger as he glared at the imposter that had his brother's face. "What nonsense! You came here, letting people think that you were America. You acted like him in the hope that people would be convinced that you were my brother. That may not resemble a lie by your standards but that is sure as hell _deception_!" Canada sought support from his brother, giving America a chance to add to his accusations.

America, however, was still standing there in shocked silence. He had not even heard his brother speak. His mind cleared of all other thoughts except one: England. England and the Confederacy. Had they really…? And England thought that it was _himself _the entire time? America's eyes crawled slowly up from where he'd been staring wide-eyed at the coffee table, just in time to lock with Adam's on the opposite side.

His counterpart's mouth curved up into a crooked satisfied smirk as Adam held America's gaze. "What's the matter, North? Is it _jealousy_ that I'm detecting, or are you just curious to know what it was _like_?"

America's eyes narrowed. Then he sprung forward without further warning, Adam's taunting shattering all his efforts to keep his temper in check. America seized the other man by the front of his throat with a hand and used the hold to haul Adam roughly out of his chair. Adam's foot kicked out desperately as he found himself suddenly being choked, the chair knocked to the floor with a clatter. It was apparent that Adam had underestimated America's true strength and the force of his anger once it was freed. "You son of a bitch!"

The others moved quickly to stop him. America distantly heard Canada shout his name. He was a little too deep in his rage to register it, full of murderous intent as he hefted Adam up as easily as he had that document that signed his land away. America slammed his Confederate counterpart down atop the table so hard that the wood shook, intent on climbing on it as well so that he could properly choke the life out of the man that had been taunting him, haunting him, hurting him for the past year.

Hands grabbed at him, pulling him back. America's grip slipped in his uncontrolled state, swiping fingers knocking Adam's glasses off his face – those glasses that belonged to _him_, that should have been on _him_! They bounced to the floor as America was hauled away from where Adam lay stunned from the onslaught of physical violence. America strained against the ones who were pulling at his body; someone's arms were locked around his waist from behind, dragging him from the table, America's arms fighting to get free. "Let me go! He _deserves_ to die. He has no right to even exist!"

"America, stop this. You can't kill him. Stop!" Canada was yelling near his ear. America felt his brother's arms tighten around his waist as the smaller man made a sudden twist with his hips, legs tangling with America's as he deliberately tripped them both. They went spilling over onto the parlor floor, America grunting with the impact and the feeling of Canada's weight crashing down on his back.

When he tried to get up, Canada's weight bore down on him that much more to hold America in place. Canada was breathless, panting heavily as he appealed to his brother in a frantic rush of words. "Please stop. Stay still, for God's sake, and get your head back under control. America, please listen to me for once."

America's head angled around on his shoulder to glare up at his sibling for the unwelcome interference. Some of his anger immediately subsided when America focused on Canada's face enough to see the trail of blood that was leaking out from his brother's right nostril. He knew that his elbow had connected with something at one point during the struggle – America just hadn't expected that it would have been Canada's face that received the blow. He hadn't broken his brother's nose in the chaos, had he?

If Canada was in any pain, he didn't display it. His face was flushed from the scuffle, the strain of his efforts lining his features. America saw sadness on that near mirror image of his own face, Canada peering at him with melancholy resolution. "Please?"

"I'm… I'm done." America whispered out shakily. Seeing the condition that his brother was in left him reeling with regret. He should have controlled himself better. That savage anger had no place in their politics, no matter how much Adam provoked him. America spread his fingers over the floor to signal the defeat of his desire to attack anyone.

Canada was satisfied with that answer. He gingerly picked himself up from America's form, allowing his brother to slowly rise up off the floor. America ruffled a hand through his hair as he swallowed the last of his anger. Beside him, Canada took the handkerchief that France offered and started to clean away the blood from his nose.

On the table, Adam had sat back up during the interaction between Canada and America. The front of his suit was torn, his tie hanging where America's clutching fingers had sliced through the fragile fabric. England had momentarily forgotten about his anger with the Confederate entity, holding a glass of water for Adam to take to ease the pain in his throat. America was glad to see the imprints of his fingers already bruising the flesh at Adam's neck. If his fingers had gotten just a little higher, he would have been able to snap it.

Adam was watching him warily. For the first time, he seemed genuinely afraid of America. When their eyes locked, America let his doppelganger have a glimpse of the darkness that was growing inside him; that inner darkness that had been born in his soul the first time that he'd been forced to kill his own people, that had been nurtured in isolation and loneliness; that had blossomed into the cruelty that America had learnt from hard lessons and harder battles. It was that show of darkness that he displayed for Adam as a warning, as a promise – because that black part of him was what would eventually destroy every trace that Adam had ever existed.

America smiled. Adam swallowed thickly.

Now they finally understood each other.

* * *

**A/N:** My goodness. I hope that I didn't just present something of pure silliness. And now the notes:

**Adam Jones a.k.a. The Confederacy of the United States of America:** I honestly could not think of a more meaningful way to appropriately write how divided the United States became during the Civil War except in the creation of an entirely _different_ America. Initially, the idea had crossed my mind that perhaps it could be less symbolic and that I could represent it through some sort of personality-disorder. As I explored it, it just didn't seem very much like America as I have been portraying him to have those sorts of dark, devious feelings (yet). Thus, my brain created Adam Jones as a separate entity - just as the South became separate from the North.

Having lived some time in both parts of the United States, I decided to base Adam off many of the southerners that I had the privilege of knowing in my time down in that part of the country. The seersucker suit was/is a popular fashion for the gentile members of the old southern society. There are also strong Christian/Baptist roots throughout that area which is why Adam was inspired to take his name from the Bible. In my head, his accent is more the whiskey-drawl of Georgia than of Texas. And being that Texas was a Confederate state during the Civil War, I decided that it was only appropriate for Adam to steal America's eyeglasses (they're Texas in canon).

Would him exploding out of America be considered mpreg? I see it more as _Aliens_ in my mind.

_America, eating dinner: Mmm, burger!_

_Adam, explodes out of his chest: Rrrrrawr, y'all!_

_America, on floor: ...Bugger me._

...My brain might be an alarming place to live.

Anyway - I just wanted to explain who he is, why he is here and why I bothered to create the character in the first place. Is it... acceptable?

**Historical Bits:**

Britain and France were sympathetic towards the Confederacy during the war. However, the United States government threatened to enter into war with any outside nation that interfered with the Civil War. Britain and France provided ships and arms for the South but did not enter directly into any form of battle as belligerents. They were also both engaged in other things at the time and couldn't be arsed with the Americans and their problems.

The British Empire was well-immersed in _The Great Game _with the Russian Empire at this time and were struggling to maintain order in their colonies in Africa and India. They did not want to risk having to engage in a war with the United States again. At one point in time, they did consider stepping in to assist the Confederacy since the South provided them most of their cotton - though Britain managed to start getting it supplied from India instead. Apparently, while trying to decide whether or not to enter into the War, one of the British commanders read _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, which swayed his decision against siding with a potential government that supported slavery.

France was involved in the Franco-Mexican War. That lasted through most of the Civil War, so their forces would have been unable to devote to assisting the Confederacy even if they had wanted to.

None of the other nations ever officially gave recognition to the Confederacy. I guess that would make Adam sort of like Sealand. Poor Sealand.

**If you haven't given up on this story now - To Be Continued in Part 2.**


	6. Chapter 6 Civil War Part Two

And here we are with Part Two. I figured that since I have not updated _FtA_ yet (I'm sorry! I have been writing and re-writing to get it how I want it.), I could at least be kind enough to update with the second installment of the Civil War segment of _World Conference_. You were all very kind to have let me know that I was going in the right direction with the introduction of Adam - I am always leery of bringing in original characters, but so far things are going well.

I need to clarify something from the last installment regarding America's uniform. See the Author's Notes for details.

Thanks to all of you who have been reviewing this story. I hope that you continue to find entertainment and quality as the tale unfolds.

* * *

_World Conference – 1862_

America stood in Canada's room at the Conference's complex, staring listlessly at his reflection in the mirror. He had gone there with his brother after leaving England's private residence; after his attack on Adam, America had decided it would be better to keep some distance from his doppelganger for the time being. Plus the knowledge that England and France had bound themselves against him - the sense of betrayal cut deeply enough that America was unable to stay in their company for very long. While he had used Canada's shower, America had managed to smooth over some of that jagged edge of emotion because it gave him enough time to acknowledge that it was not their fault; they had acted in good faith.

The hurt, however, refused to go away completely no matter how he rationalized the situation.

"I found a tie." Canada announced as he resurfaced from searching through his luggage.

After America had cleaned himself up, they had begun the chore of trying to find something else for him to wear besides the ragged military uniform. Being of a smaller build than America, Canada's clothes did not fit him properly. They had managed to find a white shirt a size too large for Canada that was only a little tight across America's chest. He'd solved that by leaving the top buttons undone. A black vest without any clasps gave him a slight appearance of feeling properly dressed, though America could not have gotten it around his torso if he'd tried.

He'd been dubious on the trousers. Luckily, America had slimmed down considerably this last year. They were a little snug through the hips but at least they were clean and buttoned up. He was forced to keep on his dirty, scuffed boots. America didn't mind them, though. Wearing the other clothes – civilian clothes – made him feel closer to normal than he'd felt in months. America's eyes shifted towards his brother's reflection in the mirror. "It'll look silly if I wear a tie with my shirt like this. They can complain all they want about my informal attire; this is the best that they're going to get out of me until I can find a tailor here in London."

Canada dropped the tie back into his suitcase. He slid off his bed and walked up behind America, standing right beside his shoulder as he gave America's image a critical examination. "It doesn't seem that bad. The casual look suits you. Besides, I bet they'll be far too distracted by the state of your hair to notice your outfit."

America frowned. He self-consciously ran his fingers through the golden strands. They had gotten long enough that it gave him a shaggy, wild appearance. Partnered with the dark circles under his eyes and the exhaustion that lined his features, he looked slightly crazed. "I'll find a barber. I couldn't be bothered to deal with it, so it's gotten a little out of hand."

Bringing a hand up in front of him, Canada snorted a laugh into it. "It looks like Britannia's hairstyle. Thicken those eyebrows up and the resemblance would be astounding."

"Shut up." America grumbled. He decided to ignore his brother's teasing. It would have made him think about England and right now he did not have any desire to do so. "I said that I would cut it later. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes." Canada met his brother's eyes in the mirror as he placed a hand on America's shoulder. "Are you… are you sure that you want to go through with this meeting? There's no guarantee that they'll vote in your favor."

America leaned into the warm pressure of Canada's touch, tempted to just rest against the steady support of his brother for a few minutes. That would have been too vivid a display of his current weakness; brother or not, America had too much pride to let Canada see how close he was to a total collapse. Wearily, he tugged the vest straighter on his body. "They'll vote my way. They have to."

* * *

A committee of nations had convened for an emergency meeting. It was a board created from a few select countries that mediated disputes between nations that fell outside of the normal Conference. Germany, Spain, Austria, China and Russia sat on the board. Normally, England and France would have also been part of the proceedings, but their direct involvement in the situation had forced them to sit out for the sake of neutrality. America had been in front of this same committee several years back due to his baseball-related disruption – now he was standing in front of it again, but this time without having done anything wrong.

They were there to handle the issue of whether or not the Confederacy of the United States of America would be allowed representation at the Conference. Adam, England and France sat at a table to the right side of the room. Adam had found a new suit to wear to replace the one that America had torn the previous night, white fabric trimmed in delicate pastels. He wore a high collar today, undoubtedly to hide the bruises that marred his throat, smiling charmingly up at the broad panel where the committee members were seated.

America stood by himself at his own table. He had no allies to sit with him, though Canada and even Hong Kong lingered at the back of the room in a show of support, and America at least took some comfort in knowing that he wasn't entirely alone.

Both himself and Adam had appealed their cases to the committee. It seemed that everything was going well, until Adam brought up the issue of the written pact between himself, France and England. There had been some discussion amongst the panel members at that point. Finally, Germany shook his head. "While we would have been able to overturn the appeal on behalf of the Confederacy for representation at the World Conference, this document is undeniable proof that he has already been acknowledged by current members of this Conference. Both England and France have entered into a pact with Confederate America; as such, we cannot invalidate what has happened."

"America, while we are sympathetic to your situation, this committee cannot force Conference nations that have already made the acknowledgement cease their recognition of this secondary entity – therefore, there is no other option but for us to allow the Confederacy of the United States the right to represent himself and his agenda here at the World Conference."

"I refuse to acknowledge it!" America said vehemently, slamming his fist down on the table. "He's not even a proper nation. He has no true land of his own – he's just using mine! I am America. Me! I won't allow this imposter the right to speak for himself."

Adam whistled at America's outburst. He shook his head mournfully, playing up the emotion as he shrugged his shoulders. "That sounds rather hypocritical coming from the likes of you." Standing from his chair, Adam's hands spread out across the table to brace him as he leaned over it. "Do you honestly intend to take the stance – in front of all these other nations – not to allow me to represent myself during these proceedings? I have my own government now; the southern half of the United States has become its own separate entity."

His blue eyes glittered with amusement as he smirked over at America. "My Confederacy has effectively become a nation. Just because you don't approve of it doesn't mean that the rest of the world can't acknowledge it. After all – didn't you do the same thing, once upon a time, to a certain nation across the Atlantic?"

England stiffened in his seat. America glanced at him briefly, his scowl deepening. "That was… that was different."

"It doesn't seem so different to me." Adam overturned his wrist, bringing a hand up into the air. "This Conference decided to allow the United States of America to represent itself during the Revolutionary War. I have just as much right to do so now. While I am not being acknowledged as a full-fledged nation, I am satisfied with the verdict that the Conference is at least willing to identify me as a potential future member."

Up at the panel, Russia's head angled to the side with a pleasant smile. "This new version of America is certainly more talkative than the other."

"Why, thank you." Adam looked flattered, smoothing his hair back with a hand.

"Oh, I did not mean it as a compliment." Russia added politely. He began to collect the papers in front of him, stacking them together with a few efficient shuffles. "I find it very annoying. Hum. Well, if there is nothing else that I am needed for today, I would like to return to my room now, comrades."

Adam deflated back down into his chair at Russia's casual dismissal. America couldn't help a little smirk – it pleased him to see that his doppelganger's charm wasn't effective on everyone. Russia was probably immune to it. He settled down into his own chair for the first time since the meeting had began, his humor with the moment gone as he returned to being frustrated with their decision. A few of the other members of the panel darted apologetic looks in his direction that America didn't respond to. Propping his elbows on his table, America rubbed vigorously at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Canada's shadow appeared at his side. America felt his brother's hand cover his lowered head, fingers ruffling through the wild hairs. "Come on. There's nothing more to be done here. Let's get you outside and find some suitable clothes for you to wear, America."

"Okay." America agreed without enthusiasm. It took an effort to get out of his chair, mustering up enough energy was a strain lately. America wasn't familiar with London even after all the times he'd been here for the Conferences. He knew that Canada, having visited this place countless times to perform colonial duties, could navigate the city well enough for the both of them.

As they prepared to leave, England stepped into their path. His eyes were dark with unhappiness as he met America's gaze. "America, I'm sorry that it—"

America held up a hand to silence his apology. "Later. Tell me later. Right now, I have so much to do that I frankly can't be bothered to hear whatever it is you want to tell me. My mind and my patience are worn too thin from the trip across the Atlantic. Let me get settled, rested up and then maybe we'll talk, all right?"

"I… Very well." England nodded stiffly.

He was going to say more, though Adam decided to show up right then. The southerner wound an arm through England's to tug on it, saying lightly. "I'm sure y'all are having a touching reunion over here. We have some more business to discuss, Britannia – if you hadn't forgotten?"

England jerked his arm free with a scowl. "It hasn't slipped my mind, Mister Jones. Let's be quick about it so I can be spared your nonsense for the rest of the afternoon." He marched away from them, beckoning France along as they headed for the doors.

Adam watched the island nation go with an upraised eyebrow. He began to stride backwards so that he could keep an eye on America, winking at him knowingly. "That man is just so _feisty_. You have to appreciate a firecracker like that, right?"

America answered him by growling menacingly. Adam decided that he'd tested his luck enough for the time being, saluting America and Canada in a mocking farewell before the white-suited southerner hurried out the door in pursuit of England and France. Canada raised a fist up, shaking it in the man's direction with a snarl. "I know that it's not allowed, but I would trade one of my territories for a chance to punch that man in the face."

"No one understands that desire better than myself." America muttered. He looped an arm around Canada's shoulders. His head cocked to indicate for Hong Kong to join them as he dragged his sibling towards the door. "Come on. This place reeks of Dixie."

* * *

During the lunchtime hour, America took a break and went out to the sprawling field that stretched out behind the complex, rolling green grass dotted here and there by aged trees. Most of the nations tended to skip out on the lunch that was hosted in London - as well as the dinner, breakfast and every other meal. So his absence in the dining room wouldn't have seemed unusual considering the circumstances. America sighed as he sat down at the base of an ancient tree trunk, enjoying the shade.

For once it was actually a sunny day in London. Everyone was out trying to enjoy it while it lasted, expecting that the phenomenon would end at any time and the rain would start to fall again if they stopped to blink. America was content to be out here by himself, though his solitude didn't last for very long. Canada had been following him like a second shadow since he'd arrived. His brother was more attentive to him than ever and America was grateful that he could rely on someone else to help when things got to be too much.

His brother sat down next to him at the bottom of the tree, Canada wrapping his arms around his knees as he folded them up to his chest. "It really did turn out to be nice today, didn't it? What a surprise."

"Miracles can happen. It was pouring rain when I left home." America said quietly as he plucked at some blades of grass nearby. "Did you need something from me?"

"No. I just thought that I should be here with you. It seems like you could use the company."

"I'm not very good company to be around." America warned him.

"You're never good company to be around." Canada snorted. He angled his face so that he could study America's profile. "…How are you holding up?"

"It's quiet today. I think they might actually be taking a break. Or else they're gearing up for the next massive battle." America explained with a wan smile. "On the days like this, I try to get as much rest as possible before they tear all my energy out of me again."

Canada stretched his legs out. He patted them in silent invitation. America eyed that offered lap for a few seconds. Shifting his body, he bowled slowly over so that he could lay his head down on the warmth of his brother's legs. He sighed with gratitude. "That's much better than the tree."

"I should hope so." Canada smiled gently down. "You should get some sleep while you can. I asked some of the others to help me find you an open room to stay in – once we find it, then you'll have a bed to doze in."

America's face twisted bitterly. "You shouldn't have gone to the trouble. I can't sleep. Having a bed isn't going to make a difference."

"Nonsense. I know that you have a lot on your mind, but once you lie down on a mattress I'm sure that you'll be asleep before your head even touches the pillow."

"You don't understand…" America blinked languidly, tiredly. "I _can't_ sleep. I've tried time and time again but it just won't happen. My people are tearing each other apart; their anger will not give me a moment's peace. When I shut my eyes, all I can do is lie there and feel them as their wills press against each other. I haven't been able to sleep a wink since this whole thing started."

Canada was aghast. "You mean to tell me that you haven't slept for an entire _year_? America, that's impossible."

"Impossible and yet true. I guess it's no less believable than there being another version of me running around, but he's here nevertheless. It's been hell, Canada. Pure, unending hell."

"No wonder you seem like you're on the verge of collapse." Canada said. He fit his palm across America's forehead. "While we don't necessarily need sleep, being nations, I don't think that I could handle not being able to turn my brain off for at least a few hours in order to recharge."

America chuckled. "If you ever want to know precisely what it means to be a nation, rather than a normal human being, just pitch your people against each other in a war. I am just now beginning to learn exactly how resilient we really are. We try our best to pretend that we are no different from the rest of the world, but it's all just an illusion to help us feel anchored to normalcy. I'm not a human, though. Humans would be able to sleep; they wouldn't be kept awake listening to the angry screams of other people. Humans can shut the world around them out – they aren't victim to the endless, unavoidable assault of these emotions. When humans cut into the land, when they burn it, when they punch into it with their cannons – they don't feel it."

"It's different for me. I bleed and I suffer and I ache and I have absolutely no choice in it. This is the burden that I accepted when I became my own nation. This is my price for freedom."

Canada asked him, softly, "Do you regret it?"

"Nope. Not even for a second." America shut his eyes, deeply inhaling the fresh air around him. "It just… makes me so, so sad. At one point in time we were all brothers, standing together for a common cause. Now they are killing each other in droves. You can't imagine what it is like for me to have to take up arms against my own people. It's like murdering my own children."

"I wish there was something that I could do to help." Canada rubbed his fingers in a pattern across America's forehead. "You are insufferable – but you're my brother. I hate seeing you suffer like this. And as unhappy as you might be with him right now, I don't think that Britannia likes seeing you this way either."

"His concern will hardly do me any good when his ships are tearing up my harbors." America said with a sigh. "We were doing all right for ourselves against the Confederacy up until now – with the extra support that they're going to get from Europe, it's going to be harder than ever to win this war."

"America is concerned about Britannia's involvement?"

They both looked up at the sound of Russia's voice invading their conversation. Canada was instantly wary, while America merely frowned upwards as the frozen nation came to stand in the shade of the tree with them. "Russia? What do you want?"

"I was feeling bothered after the meeting." Russia's scarf swung as he used a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun piercing through the leaves overhead. With all the layers of clothes that he wore, America was surprised that Russia wasn't even perspiring from the heat. "Never in all my years have I heard of such an event. Your people divided with such violence that it literally split you in two. This new America… he is quite troublesome, no?"

"'Troublesome' would be one of the milder descriptors that I'd use for him." America answered, straining up to sit when it seemed that Russia intended to stick around and converse. "Fortunately, there are only a few days left for the Conference. Once it's finished, his ability to interact with the other nations will be considerably lessened."

"Is that what you are banking on for your plan?" Russia gave him a quirky look of amusement. The tall man crouched down over the grass in front of America. He had not even noticed that Canada was there. Russia smoothed down the front of his scarf with a hand. "I hope that America has a better plan than that one up his sleeve. His wicked little twin will have an advantage now with France and the British Empire – how do you intend to combat them all, I wonder?"

"I don't know. I don't…" America rubbed at his eyes with frustration. "I wasn't even beginning to think of what to do when they move in support of the Confederacy. What option do I have, aside from simply digging my heels in and fighting that much harder?"

"You could ask for help." Russia's shoulders pulsed up in a shrug. "That is what your other self did, da? Why don't you appeal to other nations, just like he did?"

"Because he has no right to involve others in this fight. This is our fight, his and mine. The rest of the world is occupied with other problems and they do not need to be drawn into our battle. Besides… I don't want to end up feeling indebted to anyone else." America told him, being honest about his thoughts.

"That is an admirable position." Russia smiled sweetly as he added, "A stupid position, but an admirable one. America has clearly grown up a little." He patted America on the top of the head as if he were praising a child. The answers that America had given him apparently satisfied Russia because he stood up directly afterwards. Russia tilted his head back, squinting up at the sun again as he said, vaguely, "You know… I have been playing a fun little game with Britannia for a few years now. We like to go back and forth with each other, because I find it entertaining to test his limitations."

"The 'Great Game'?" Canada asked. He drew Russia's attention, and the tall man seemed surprised to find him sitting there.

"Oh. Hello, little colony. Yes, that would be the game I am talking about." Russia said with a nod. "I do not think that Britannia finds it as fun as I do – he never seems to find much fun in anything, which is actually very sad." Russia's violet eyes dropped to America's face, appraising him with interest. "My game with Britannia has become very boring. I don't find much sport in it any longer. One day soon, I think that I will have to start a brand new game with someone much more entertaining. It would please me very much if America were to survive long enough for me to engage him in such play."

America smirked faintly. "Sure. If I make it through this, one day we'll play. It'll be loads of laughs, I'd wager."

"Ahhh, good, good." Russia's gloved hands clapped together as childlike delight lit up his face. "That will give me something to look forward to. In the meantime, America must try very hard not to let himself be destroyed."

"I doubt it will go to that extreme." America murmured.

Russia moved to go. He paused to smile back at America. "Of course it will go to that extreme, America. There are two of you when there should be one. The only hope that either of you can have for resolution of this conflict is when one of you ends up dead." Russia pointed at the younger man. "Just remember that you promised Russia a game – and try not to let it be you."

* * *

America squinted thoughtfully at his opponent. While the other man exuded confidence, there was a good chance that it was all a mask to hide behind. He searched intently for any hint of weakness, any indication whatsoever that he had the advantage. It was a gamble. Pursing his lips, America inhaled a breath and made his move.

"I'll see your buttered scone and raise you three pieces of cabbage."

India's dark eyes flickered, faltering momentarily from the cards fanned in both hands. His eyes darted over to New Zealand as the rugged colony sighed and slapped his cards down on the floor. "I fold. Damnit!"

"You always fold." Australia smirked over his own hand of cards, fingering one of them as he considered the value of what had been dealt to him. "Maybe you should stick to the kiddie card games and leave the real gambling to us grown ups, eh?"

"Piss off!" New Zealand made a gesture that was blatantly rude, pushing away from the circle of seated colonies to see what the others were up to.

In the end, they had been unable to locate a spare room for America to stay in. Hong Kong had been generous enough to offer to share his with the nation. His own lodgings were nestled in amongst the rooms shared by the other British colonies and once it became common knowledge that America was going to be lodging with him, Hong Kong's room quickly became a scene of activity as the other colonies began to drop by. Ever since America's efforts to include them in something besides their regular duties the year of the infamous Baseball Fiasco of 1845, he had become quickly popular amongst them.

Hong Kong sat on the bed with his legs folded. He had looked irritated with having his room invaded by all the others but did not voice any protest about it. The dark-haired teen was too absorbed in the book that he was reading; it was a leather-bound book that seemed to have come from England's collection. Hong Kong had no interest in their card game, though he did stop while turning pages to peer at their gambling pieces. "Are you… are you using _food_ to bet with?"

"Why not? These things are practically like precious gems, hard as they are." America pointed out. To demonstrate, he picked one of them up and tapped it against the floor. A few crumbs shattered off the bottom – somehow, it seemed entirely wrong for food to react that way. "Since no one wants to eat them, we might as well get some use out of them, right?"

India drew his leg back as some of the crumbs flew onto the colorful silk of his pants. He shook his foot with a jingle of the gold charms around his ankle, nose wrinkling in disgust. "I am ready to call when you are, America."

"Hold back your tears, gentlemen." America told them as he spread his cards out in a practiced flourish. He grinned as Australia gasped in shock, tossing his own down with a scowl. India pouted demurely as he set his own stack of cards down.

Canada shook his head from where he was seated beside Hong Kong on the bed, chuckling at their disappointment. "You guys really shouldn't keep trying to beat him. His people invented the game, after all. Why do you think I opted not to play?"

"It's not like I have an advantage over anyone else." America shrugged as he gathered the pile of discarded food over the floor to pile near his knee. He picked up the cards in order to shuffle them for the next round of play. "The trick is just learning how to read the people that you're playing against. Everyone has little quirks that give them away once you know what to look for – there are patterns that you can see after a few rounds that change depending on whether they are happy with their hand or not."

"That sounds incredibly perceptive." India said, impressed. "Are you very good at reading people, America?"

"When I want to." America finished deftly shuffling the deck of cards, dealing them out. "Most of the time, it just seems like a lot of work and I don't bother. If there is something on the line, though, I'm more likely to give it my best." He winked at India.

The door opened up as Gibraltar returned from searching for more chairs. He sheepishly dragged a few of them inside. The others looked up at him expectantly, America brightening up. "Hey, just in time! We were about to start the next round."

"Actually, um…" Gibraltar scuffed a foot on the floor. With a guilty look on his face, the colony stepped aside with a gesture towards the opened door behind him. "I got caught trying to find more chairs and he… uh… wanted to know why I was doing it."

No one had to ask whom exactly Gibraltar was referring to, because not more than ten seconds later England stepped into the doorframe. They all went quiet as the blond man stared at the scene before him with a bland expression. Slowly, England's face began to harden with disapproval, arms folding in front of his chest. "I see. So this is where you all went hiding. I doubt that I even need to ask who the ringleader of this little get together was, now do I?"

He glowered at America. "You. I need to talk to you. Come with me."

America blanched at the tone of his voice. He had wanted to avoid this, but he couldn't just dismiss England in front of all the colonies. With an apologetic look to the others, America smoothed down his clothes with a sigh. "Sorry, guys. We'll have to play again some other time."

England waited for him out in the hallway. His hair was twisted in a slightly wilder mess than usual. America knew that whenever England became too bothered, he tended to tangle his hair up with his fingers. It was a habit that the older nation had held since America's childhood. Canada watched them standing out there together, a few of the other colonies straining curiously to see out into the hallway, before Canada politely shut the door to give them some privacy.

America went to the wall opposite the door so that their voices would not carry too much. Moonlight was beaming in through the panes of glass of the window beside him in a wash of pale white, as America leaned his shoulder against the support of the wood. He stayed silent as England fidgeted restlessly. The other nation was the one who had called him out here to talk – the burden fell on England's shoulders to start the conversation. America was not used to seeing England fumbling and speechless; it would have been amusing in any other circumstances.

Then England settled on a train of thought and finally had the resolve to speak. "You haven't given me an opportunity to explain myself."

"There isn't much that needs to be explained, is there?" America looked out the window with a bitter smile. "He tricked you into thinking that he was me. He got you to enter into an agreement with him – and apparently he seduced you into bed under false pretenses. I think we put all that together already, Britannia. What more do you need to decipher out of the situation?"

England's cheeks colored with the mention of his intimacy with Confederate America. His fingers toyed nervously with his tie, tugging absently on the ribbon as he struggled just to look America in the face. "I simply… didn't want you being left with the impression that I set out to deal with him harboring any inappropriate intentions. Since I… had believed him to be you and had gone along with… things."

"Wait…" America's brows drew together in confusion. "Are you apologizing to me because you think I'm mad at you for sleeping with someone you thought was me?"

"Basically." England's eyes fluttered rapidly. "Is… should I not?"

America couldn't help but laugh. Sometimes it became all too clear exactly how socially awkward England could be at times. Of all the things to be fretting over, he'd been worried about _that_? When he saw England turning angry from his laughter, America got it under control. "S-sorry. It's just… really? That's what's bothering you?"

"Yes, it has been bothering me." England snapped at him. "It has been nagging at me all damned day. I was determined to apologize for it, if it was an issue for you." He tapped his foot on the floor. "Obviously, I need not have bothered."

"No. You need not have." America rubbed at his face with a hand. "Was that it? I'm not really feeling up to standing around for idle chatter longer than I have to. No offense, but I'm exhausted."

"I noticed." England was finally able to give him his full attention, emboldened by his irritation with America. "Canada informed me that you have been left without a space to sleep in. I thought that I would invite you to stay at my residence. It is close to the complex, has more privacy than the rooms here, and it is the least I can do for all the trouble that I've caused for you so far."

America considered the offer. It was thoughtful, since England had never extended such an invitation to any of the other nations as far as he knew. Staying at England's home would make him less likely to encounter Adam except when absolutely necessary. He also wouldn't have to worry about disturbing anyone with his current erratic behaviors. America smiled wearily. "Sure. Okay. That would be very nice."

England seemed relieved at his acceptance. "Very good. Shall I send someone up to fetch your luggage?"

"I have no luggage to speak of. I'm ready to leave whenever you are."

"Then let us be off. It's getting late out and we have an early morning ahead of us." England said decisively as he led the way down the corridor on their way out.

* * *

It was sometime in the middle of the night when America heard the floorboards creaking. He glanced up from the book opened in front of him where he'd settled behind England's desk in the older nation's study when his host made an appearance. England wore a red velvet robe over his pajamas and his hair was in a tousled mess from sleep as the man pressed the door the rest of the way open with a hand, squinting tiredly against the light of the lamp as he sluggishly questioned America. "What are you still doing up?"

"I'm reading Shakespeare. I think I finally understand some of what he wrote – but you might consider having someone translate this into normal English someday." America said pleasantly as he turned another page. Having seen England in this condition several times as a child, he knew that it was pointless to try to explain anything to him – the island nation might very well be standing in the room engaging him in conversation, but England's rational brain was still fast asleep.

Just as he'd predicted, England didn't even register America's words. Green eyes just dully shifted around the room as he nodded, mumbling. "All right. Jolly good. Don't forget to turn off the light when you're finished in here."

"Yeah. Will do." America assured him, even though England was already leaving the room without paying him any more mind. He could have set a fire on England's desk right now and the older man wouldn't have thought anything about it.

A whole hour passed before the door pushed open again. This time, England's eyes actually had focus to them and America knew that he was awake enough to be alert. "America? What on earth are you doing?"

"Reading Shakespeare." America repeated himself with a tiny smirk, leaving off his previous comments because he knew that England would not take them well this time around. He was nearly finished with the book now, tossing the cover closed as he looked across the study to where England stood. "Did I wake you somehow? I thought that I was being quiet."

"You were." England told him as he tied his robe closed around his body to make himself more presentable. "I just… was I up earlier?"

America shrugged. "You popped in briefly. I assumed that you went back to bed after that."

"Indeed I did. Then it started to bother me, not knowing if I had dreamt it up or not. I decided to come and check for myself." England crossed the floor, seating himself in one of the guest chairs by the desk. He sank comfortably into the cushions as he steadily regarded America. "Canada informed me of your current condition. You're truly unable to sleep?"

"It seems so. I don't mind it so much anymore. You would be surprised at all the things that I've been able to do without sleep getting in the way." America said wryly. "I really do wish that Canada would stop reporting to you whenever something is wrong with me."

"He's your brother. He's concerned for your well-being." England placed an elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his chin down upon an upraised hand. "Canada is also young and uncertain of how to handle things at times, so he has become accustomed to keeping me informed of everything that is happening in his part of the world. Many of those things just coincidentally involve you."

America snorted at England's words. "Yes, well… My land and its people keep me busy. I'm sure that there is plenty for him to divulge."

"Regardless, it isn't healthy for you to continue on in this manner." England told him sternly.

"I've tried everything that I could think of."

"Would you be opposed to me making an attempt? I have an alternate method that might work if you are open to the idea."

America sighed, sagging over his book. "Britannia – I am so tired right now that you could ask me to stand on my head while eating a biscuit and I would gladly do it if I thought it would help me fall asleep."

England nodded and rose. "Then it's settled. Go get comfortable in your room and I shall be there in a few minutes once I have everything ready."

While America seriously doubted that any method of England's could work for him, he was willing to try. He did as he was directed and went back to the room that he'd been given. America did pause on his way there as he recognized the door that had been to his old room. Curiously, he tested the doorknob in a desire to peek inside – but it was locked. He was a little disappointed with not being able to see what England had done to change it over the years. America continued on to his current room while shaking the feeling.

America had just finished climbing into bed inside the guest bedroom when England came through the door, balancing a tea tray. He had a kettle and a pair of porcelain cups sitting on it alongside a small, nondescript pouch. England placed the tray down on the bedside table so that he could work. America watched with heavy-lidded eyes as the older man carefully filled each cup with tea, pouring with practiced motions that were as second nature to England as breathing. "You're going to try to put me to sleep with tea?"

"Not just any tea." England said absently as he delicately deposited three lumps of sugar into one of the cups to sweeten it to America's tastes. "Or I could say that it isn't the tea that will help you sleep. It will be what I _put_ in the tea that should do the trick."

It was fascinating to watch England work, the older man's ministrations conducted precisely – almost daintily. America saw him pick up the little pouch from the tray, England unwinding a string around it that appeared heavily aged. He had never had much experience seeing England doing this kind of stuff; it was general knowledge among the other nations that England dabbled in things that were considered supernatural. However, the man was incredibly protective of the secrets behind what he was and wasn't capable of doing. America saw him measure out some type of herbs into his palm, England pinching them between his fingers to crush them up into a fine green powder.

He scattered them into one of the cups, stirring the bits into the tea with a tiny silver spoon. England eyed the contents before adding another lump of sugar as an afterthought. With a small smile, he took up the cup and saucer and held it out to America. "There. That should do it. Just be sure to drink it slowly. The powder needs to dissolve a little more to be fully effective."

America took the cup, balancing it carefully on his palm. He peered down into the teacup, seeing the powder already dissolving the rest of the way. The idea of drinking the contents made his stomach threaten to flop. He had already come this far, though. America decided to at least see it through. Luckily the sugar dominated the flavor of everything else, so it just tasted like sweetened hot water.

England moved a chair by the bed so that he could settle beside it. He squirmed upon it until he was comfortable, taking his own cup into his hands. England watched America to judge his reaction of the tea, pleased to see that the younger man was dutifully drinking it. "How is it?"

"It's tea. There isn't much to say about it." America told him quietly as he forced himself to take another swallow of the bland stuff.

"Just keep drinking it. Finish this cup and I should only have to make half the dose for the next one."

America made a miserable face. "You mean that I am going to have to drink _another_ one?"

England scoffed. "You said that you wanted to sleep. Do you want to or not? The dose that I just gave you might be enough for an elephant. You're about an elephant and a half."

"That's a kind comparison." America retorted sarcastically.

"If not kind, then certainly accurate." England told him.

America grimaced the entire time that it took him to get through the cup of tea. He held it out to the older man, tongue licking out into the air as if he could chase the taste out of his mouth. England rolled his eyes at those antics and prepared the second cup. As promised, America was given only half a cup this time around. He braced himself and started on it.

Satisfied with America's consumption of the tea, England tilted his own cup around to watch the light of the lamp play on the surface of the liquid. "Give it a few minutes and you should feel it kick in. While we're waiting… is there anything that you'd like to discuss? I would imagine that there are plenty of things for you to get off your chest, if you feel comfortable enough to do so in present company."

"If I start to talk now, it's just going to be me rambling. I doubt that you'd care to hear it."

England lowered his teacup from his lips. "Try me. Honestly, until I know for sure that this worked, I have nothing else but time to sit and listen."

"Okay, well…" America curled his fingers around the saucer of tea as he spoke. "When this all started for me, the day I became free, I made a promise to Washington. I swore to him that I would protect my land and my people. That I would do everything in my power to keep them safe from any foreign threat." He bobbed his head absently, eyes searching the air in front of him. "So I have made good on that promise. I will _keep_ that promise. There is no reason why I shall ever not take arms against any outside force that menaces the lives of my people."

"Washington was a wise man. He just never… We never thought to prepare me for this. Not for the threat that would come from my own people, upon my own lands. I have no true perception of what to do in this situation." America's solemn face softened with a phantom smile as he recalled something more. "Actually, thinking back on it now, I suppose that Washington _did_ warn me."

America sent that smile over at England, who listened patiently without the usual response of anger at any mention of that dark time between them. "Washington told me an important point one night, though I was too distracted or too indifferent at the time to truly understand what he meant. He told me to always take measure of my people, for though they are dear to me, they are citizens borne of revolution. Their struggle for freedom has infused them with a patriot soul; such a spirit will always fight even unto death for what it believes in."

"That is very true. I have always thought that myself." England's voice was hushed. He stretched over to remove the saucer from America's grasp when it threatened to go slack. England replaced it back on the tray. "Why, then, have you chosen a side? You could very well stay out of the skirmish and allow your people to determine the outcome without you."

"I can't… turn my back on the people that need me." America mumbled, his mouth splitting wide open with a yawn that he didn't bother to censor. Admittedly, he was feeling quite relaxed at the moment. His body felt like it was floating on a bed of air instead of on a mattress. "It always bothered me that there were people in my land that were not free to make their own futures. I never had the opportunity to do anything about it before, but now…" He blinked hurriedly, trying to keep his eyes open. "Now I can help them. Really, if I have the right to be free why not fight for… fight for… them…?"

America felt the world slipping away from him. Any other time it would have been alarming. Now it was a welcomed relief. He relaxed into that twilight with a long sigh. Distantly, he heard England speak. "I wouldn't expect anything less out of you, America." America felt the soft warmth of England's lips touch his forehead just as they had done countless times during his childhood. He was pretty sure that he also felt that same warmth press down upon his mouth – yet America was too far removed from it to care and soon knew nothing at all as he sank into deep, blissful slumber.

* * *

_World Conference – 1863_

"I heard a rumor that it was around 60,000 dead, aru." China kept his voice pitched low in volume, dark eyes darting over the other nations that walked past their seats. He settled on England for confirmation.

The island nation had not heard him. England sat in his chair absorbed in deep preoccupation. His green eyes failed to acknowledge China's look as they kept darting between the two empty chairs at the Conference table – the absence of America and Confederate America having stirred a wave of sensational curiosity through the other present nations. His detached expression was laced with sorrow. Deciding not to press him, China returned his gaze to Russia. "That is what I was told, anyway."

"60,000 dead in a war?" Russia's eyebrows inched up. "That does not sound so bad."

"Not the whole war, aru." China shook his head. "60,000 dead in one single _battle_."

"That many dead in one fight?" Now Russia looked impressed. He laughed soundlessly, humor coloring his features. "Our American friends are quite a violent lot, are they not? With so many dead – how do they know who won the battle?"

England's jaw clenched. Russia's open amusement irked him enough to get a response. "The Union won that fight – America's side. Try not to sound so pleased about the number of casualties, you goddamned barbarian."

"Ha ha. Britannia makes up such colorful names. I suppose he has much time on his hands to think them up on his tiny little island." Russia's smile spread as he twisted to peer at the seated nation. "Though I suspect that he is partially pouting because I will not leave India alone."

"Piss off, Russia. I have no tolerance for the likes of you today." England said harshly, mouth twisting in the beginnings of a snarl.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Russia placed a hand on China's shoulder that made the smaller man tense. He began to pull China off with him as they went further down the table on the way to their chairs. "Tell me more about what you have heard from this glorious little war."

England was tempted to leap out of his chair and give Russia a loud, crude piece of his mind. His muscles tensed for the impending verbal ambush. He managed to stop himself only when England spied Canada stepping into the room. That anger turned to a mingled rush of concern and relief as he stood from his chair to catch the colony's attention.

Canada came directly over. His youthful face was troubled; that alone did not sit well with England. Scowling, England questioned him instantly. "Well? What news?"

Canada held out a folded letter to the man. With weariness in his voice, the young colony told him, "He asked me to give this to you."

England wordlessly accepted the letter. He tore the seal open with haste so that he could unfold it to read the contents. There was a note tucked inside. The broad, unpolished handwriting was easy to recognize as England scanned America's words.

_Britannia,_

_I hope my letter finds you in good health. Canada said something in his last letter to me about Russia causing you trouble in the East. Don't let his campaign wear you down – the man does not need to get any bigger._

_You'd be happy to know that I finally finished reading all those works by Shakespeare that you loaned me at the last Conference. I am sorry that I couldn't be there to return them to you._

_Since you were kind enough to grant me knowledge of one of your great playwrights, I thought it would only be fair to give you a glimpse of one of my great orators. Abraham was kind enough to write a copy of his speech from Gettysburg for me to send to you. He truly is a great man – I think you'll see that from his words alone._

_Thinking of You,_

_America_

Canada stretched up on his toes in an effort to peek at the writing over England's shoulder. "What does it say?"

"It…" England brushed America's note aside so that he could read the larger written letter. He sat on the edge of the table, reading the words written by America's president one time, then again. When it seemed that Canada was still expecting some response, England wet his lips and read the words in a soft voice:

"'Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth…'" England's lilting voice trailed off.

When he looked up from the page, England saw that not only was Canada standing there at rapt attention – other nations were as well. He saw France, North Italy, Hungary – even Russia and China had wandered back over to see what news England might have received. They stared thoughtfully at the letter in England's hands.

Then, abruptly, North Italy burst into tears. "That was so pretty and so sad!" He took hold of Hungary beside him, wrapping himself against the woman as he sobbed. Hungary patted him gingerly on the shoulder to comfort his intense emotion.

She started to lead him off with a gentle voice. "Let's go find you something to snack on before the meeting starts."

Italy's outburst dissolved the tableau of nations as they dispersed away. France remained, taking the letter from England's hand to look it over. He clucked his tongue proudly. "That America and his people… they sure are something, _oui_?"

England had curled his right hand into a loose fist. He brought it up to his mouth, absently biting down on the crescent of his thumbnail, clasping his elbow with the other hand. Hearing France's question, he couldn't help but smile wryly. "For once, France, I might actually agree with you."

* * *

_World Conference – 1864_

Canada had not even touched the tea that England poured for him. It was left sitting there getting cold as the young colony frowned out the nearby window. The weather was unseasonably cold in Germany, winter snow blowing outside so that neither of them felt tempted to venture out. Shut inside, there was nothing for them to do. Canada stirred from his thoughts. "Apparently he gave his permission to his generals to engage in all-out warfare; I hear that one of them even marched his troops clear down to the Gulf of Mexico burning everything in his path. America must be getting desperate if he is willing to burn the land to guarantee victory."

"He may not even feel it right now." England nursed his tea without haste. "Adam is his southern half now, isn't he? I wonder if that man even knew what he was getting into."

"Do you… do you think that America will be able to recover from all of this?"

England considered the question. He did not want to spout out something false to reassure Canada; the young colony deserved honesty. "I'm not sure. All that we can do is send our hopes along to America, wait to see what the outcome will be, and keep faith in him that he will succeed."

* * *

Across the world, America was bent over his desk as he wrote in silence, nose practically rubbing into the ink as his quill etched over the paper in steady lines. The light of the lamp should have been sufficient enough to see by, yet without the assistance of his eyeglasses even a simple task such as writing a letter was that much harder. He dipped his quill in the ink well again to refresh it, glancing up at the door as it opened. America smiled wryly as he saw Abraham step inside moments later, the man enfolding a stack of documents in one arm. "You're up late."

"And you're still writing blindly as ever, I see." Abraham pointed out. He placed the stack of papers on the side of America's desk with a bemused expression. "I doubt that reading these will help your situation. Has it not crossed your mind to get new eyeglasses to see by?"

"I could. They just wouldn't be the same." America shrugged before he eyed the thickness of the stack. His sheepishness crumbled into misery. "More paperwork? I thought we were fighting a war here, not running a business."

"The business of war is always good business." Abraham intoned dryly.

"That's true…" America lamented. He placed his palm on top of the stack and dragged it closer to his reach. The quill was put to the side as he started to sort through the documents.

Abraham hitched up the legs of his trousers so that he could sit comfortably in a chair across the desk. Since America rarely entertained visitors in his office, there was not much wear to the cushions. The man's eyes noted America's efforts to write out the letter, Abraham murmuring, "You do know that you could send whatever it is that you had to say in a telegraph, correct?"

America smirked at him over the top of a sheet of paper. "Like you should talk? You write everything out by hand just as much as I do."

"I like the feel of the quill in my fingers. The dank smell of the ink." Abraham tapped a long index finger musingly against the thick black beard that masked his chin. "Plus, it makes words seem more important when they have been written by hand. I think the only difference between empty words and sincere ones are the effort put into using them." Lowering that hand, he curled his fingers around the arm of the chair, staring curiously at America. "Do you intend to send your letter this time? Or will it be delegated to the drawer like the others?"

"You know me too well." America's face scrunched up. Abraham was sitting there playing witness as the young man pulled open the bottom drawer to his desk. He used his forearm to slide the unfinished letter across the desktop until it dumped over into the waiting bin. It fell onto the messy stack of other pieces of parchment; some yellow with age, so brittle that the newcomer flaked off bits of paper when it fell.

Abraham's face softened. "If you don't mind my prying, how many letters are in there?"

"I'm not sure. I never counted." America gazed down into the drawer, all of those unfinished or unsent letters standing as a symbol of his cowardice – so many years, so many letters, and not one of them did he ever have the courage to send to their intended recipient. "I have only ever sent a few. One of these days I should probably just throw them all out."

"They stand as a notary of your feelings. You could dispose of the written words but that hardly erases the feeling, does it?" Abraham smiled faintly. "I would encourage you to keep them; perhaps you will one day find the courage to rescue them from imprisonment and send them to their destination. There is no harm in the writing. After all, 'To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.'- or so the Bard did say."

The stack of documents fell onto the desk as America released them, smiling pleasantly in surprise at the other man. "Abraham. Are you a fan of Shakespeare?"

"I have dabbled in Shakespeare. I have dabbled in the works of many great authors and orators." Abraham tilted his head to the left, his smile growing so that the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. "I know a little of everything and nothing at all. My only reason for quoting him was due to the fact that I just noticed that you still have a stack of his books there on the shelf behind you."

"Oh." America twisted around in his chair to glance back at the shelf. He turned back with a sigh. "Yes. I still haven't been able to return them. At this rate, I'll never be loaned anything ever again since I have been so poor about giving the books back to their rightful owner."

Abraham drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. "You can hardly be blamed. We have all been keeping you busy, haven't we? It wasn't your decision to be the creature unfortunate enough to be burdened by such greedy citizens; you were just born under an unlucky star with the destiny of being America. Regardless - is there a particular work of Shakespeare's that you enjoy? I know that there were particular books that you favored over the others."

America hesitated. He didn't feel ready to confess. "What's yours?"

"I have a few. Growing up, I was much enamored of his tributes to kings long expired – _King Lear, Henry IV_; Shakespeare managed to make these legendary men noble and humble at the same time. I often imagined myself rising to such lofty heights as those leaders immortalized in his prose." Abraham explained. Then he added, with a touch of humor, "Though I prefer his comedies a great deal. Praise for fallen kings is lovely to read but I would rather dwell in comedic sport as much as possible."

"Me too." America nodded in support of Abraham's words. "I did like those ones about the kings and all, though they were just so… so…" He tried to find the right words.

"British?" Abraham supplied dryly.

"Exactly! They were very British. Of course, Shakespeare could hardly be blamed for being biased towards his own country." America chuckled. "I liked the comedies – a lot of it was hard for me to understand at first; I had to read them a few times just to figure out what was going on. My favorite work, though, is… _Romeo and Juliet_."

Abraham's eyebrows lifted on his forehead. "That's surprising coming from you. I wouldn't have imagined that would be a favorite of yours. It's a tragedy; you seem made for more optimistic endings."

"I know. I am, believe me." America said lightly. His eyes were distracted, watching Abraham's eyebrows move to match his expressions. Those thick eyebrows reminded him far too much of someone else. "I guess I just couldn't dwell on the tragic element – while it's true that everyone ended up dead in the end, and there was so much sadness, I think that people tend to forget that at the heart of it, _Romeo and Juliet_ was a love story."

"Some would argue that that is the tragedy in and of itself." Abraham chuckled out. "Leave it to you to put such an angle on how you perceived the tale. Are you a romanticist at heart, America?"

"Maybe. I've never thought about it much. It's just such a powerful part of the story." America shrugged nonchalantly. "They loved each other. They loved each other despite all the obstacles stacked against them. Romeo and Juliet were so deeply in love that they even died together. I think everyone wishes for something like that, don't they?"

Abraham mulled over the question. "Hm. I suppose that those who have not discovered love like that might long for it. Fortunately, I was blessed enough to have found my beloved years ago before the stress of lovesickness could set its claws in me. Do you have someone that you love like that, America?"

America shook his head. "No. I haven't made a connection on that sort of level. It's different for me than it is for regular people; those sorts of commitments carry a considerable impact. I don't think I'm ready for that quite yet."

"I can't fathom what it must be like to be a being such as yourself." Abraham murmured. "I can think of no existence that would feel so… lonely." He plucked his pocket watch from his waistcoat to check the time. "Which reminds me that I should be at home preparing for bed, while conversation has once again enthralled my attentions."

"I won't keep you any longer, then. Please give Mrs. Lincoln my regards." America sat back in his chair as he watched Abraham stand. The man was so tall that it sometimes seemed Abraham might hit his head on the ceiling at any given moment.

"Of course I will. She is constantly asking why I have not managed to lure you over for a proper meal; you will have to accept my invitation some night if just to spare me the constant questions." Abraham placed a hand on America's head in a brief affectionate ruffle of the nation's hair. "Try to get some rest, America. We are on the road to victory. Very soon you will once again be at peace. That is what I strive for - what I will pray for tonight. A prayer for America is never a waste of words." He winked down at the seated nation, crossing the room with long strides as Abraham took his leave.

* * *

**A/N: **Some of you have expressed the fact that you like this section! The _Aliens_ reference didn't frighten you off? Excellent!

**America's uniform:** In the description of his uniform in the last installment, I had written that it was grey. brought it up in reviews that grey was the color of the Confederate Uniform - we had both thought that I had erred rather horrendously. It did prompt me to go back over all of my notes (because I have a ton of notes, like the geek that I am in wanting to be accurate), and I realized that what I thought had an error had in fact been _intentionally_ written that way for good reason: The dark blue uniforms of the Union Army and the grey of the Confederacy didn't actually become standard military uniforms until **1863**. Prior to that, the opposing sides wore uniforms from their states, or even from their foreign nation (Scotsman living in the United States at the time even wore kilts into battle. Hardcore!).

The designated uniforms were actually created to avoid confusion - because in the early parts of the war, some Confederate units wore blue, some Union soldiers wore grey, and it made it difficult for them to determine who was who until they were already upon each other. I based America's uniform off one of the early army outfits from soldiers dispatched from New York. I should have clarified it - I thought that I'd slipped up, but if anything it just tells me that I need to be better organized with all these papers on my desk.

**The Great Game -** I mentioned this briefly in the Author's Notes of the last installment. This was the term given to a time when the British Empire and the Russian Empire were fighting for control of territories in Africa and Asia. Russia was a competitive nation even then!

**Poker** - is loosely credited as having been invented in America. The earliest mention of it being played was down in New Orleans around.. 1829? I think?

**The Battle of Gettysburg **- **60,000 **is the _estimated _total combined casualties during the Battle of Gettysburg. Deaths were heavy on both sides of the War. Historians credit this as a Union victory, and some have said that it was the turning point of the eventual victory of the Union. President Abraham Lincoln commemorated the battle with the Gettysburg Address. It is one of the most famous speeches in American history, despite many questioning the exact wording of the Address itself, and a few others hinting that Lincoln borrowed much of it from previous orators. The form of the Address read in this installment by England is just one of several interpretations of what Lincoln really said.

**Civil War 1864 **- The Union had pretty much secured its victory by then. Ulysses S. Grant was asked by Lincoln to leave the battlegrounds in order to become the sole General of the entire Union Army. Grant began staging all-out warfare in an attempt to break the spirit of the South the rest of the way. He gave permission to General Sherman to begin destroying the Southern territories. Sherman marched down the Mississippi, burning a trail clear down to the bottom of Georgia. Savannah, Georgia was one of the only cities spared because they met him with a flag of truce before he could destroy it. His campaign is known as "Sherman's March".

Sherman's unit met little resistance on the way down into the South. As the legend goes, the further he advanced, the less the Confederacy sought to attack him, because by that time his unit had been joined by all the slaves that had now become free men, and that the entire parade marched together to the Gulf of Mexico.

**Abraham Lincoln** - The 16th President. And in my opinion the most interesting one that the country has had! I am something of an uber-fan of Lincoln. I wrote several reports on him during my school history because he was such a fascinating individual. Not just due to his public personae, but with his private life and the interesting factoids about him and how he was outside of the public eye. Lincoln had some incredible eccentricities. If it interests you, definitely look into it - I think you'll see what I mean. Unfortunately, if you are at all familiar with American history, then you already know the poor man's fate.

**Random Civil War Fact: **The youngest recorded casualty of the Civil War: Age 12. That probably won't come up in Trivial Pursuit, but there you have it.

The Civil War segment of _World Conference _will conclude in Part Three. Stay tuned!


	7. Chapter 7 Civil War Part ThreeFinal

Hello again. This is the final chapter in the Civil War series of _WC:AP. _I hope that the end is as satisfying as everyone had hoped it would be. There is so much more that I could have put, yet even without the additional material that I had wanted to add this is still the longest installment so far.

There are some majorly dark themes in this installment. Though this chapter also covers a very dark moment in America's history.

I hope that you have enjoyed my take on the American Civil War.

* * *

_World Conference – 1865_

The members of the World Conference had all been surprised when it was announced that the meeting would be held in Canada. No colony had ever hosted the event before then, so that fact alone was enough to generate some buzz among them. Whatever concerns they may have had faded when Canada proved to be a gracious, efficient host, as capable as any nation with receiving them onto his territory. A few nations still protested, though with England's blessing behind Canada's offer, they had no option except to attend or sit out.

England stood back to keep an eye on things while Canada greeted each nation that arrived at the complex. He had worried about having to step in to fix problems that rose, yet Canada had taken all possible obstacles into consideration ahead of time to avoid anything unforeseen. England had little else to do besides lurk around the outskirts. One of the attendants found him, a folded paper in his hand. "Sir? I have a message for you."

"Already?" England took the note with a grimace. The Conference had barely begun and people were starting to _complain_? He sighed as he read it over.

_Britannia__ – Meet me in Conference Room B_.

It was signed off with nothing more but a scrawled letter 'A_'._

Tucking the note into the interior of his jacket, England left Canada to fend for himself since he was doing well enough on his own. He hurried to the designated spot. England was smiling when he pushed the door open to walk in, eyes sweeping the room. "America?"

The door was shoved shut behind him. That sudden movement made England shuffle away from it, as his eyes adjusted with the dim lighting so that he could properly see who had shut them in. England's smile dropped when he saw that it was Adam who was bolting the lock. "Oh. It's you. What the hell do you want?"

"Britannia…" The southerner was a mess, certainly a far cry from the polished, collected young man that he'd been when England had last set eyes on him. Adam was in a state of panic; his blue eyes darted uncontrollably behind his glasses, fingers trembling as he plucked at some threads on the bottom of his suit jacket. He seemed on the verge of madness, face pale and haggard. "I need… I need your help."

"Oh?" England queried mildly. He rested a hand on his hip. "This is new for you: No trickery, no deception – you're just going to come out and ask for my help this time?"

His sarcasm failed to register with the young man. Adam's fingers twitched before settling on the lapels of England's jacket, clinging onto the fabric as he penetrated those green eyes with his. "Please. _Please_! Grant me political immunity. Let me come live in London – or even in Paris! You have enough clout that you could convince France."

England stared passively up into Adam's pleading face. Adam was counting on his resemblance to America to rile up sympathy from the other man. The scheme didn't appear to be working. "Let me see if I understand you correctly, Mister Jones. You have concluded that your war is lost. Rather than facing the consequences of your defeat, you are instead asking me to risk the ire of the American government so that you can retreat to the sanctuary of Europe?"

"If that's how you want to view it, then fine. Paint me as I coward, I don't care." Adam said quickly. He tightened his hold on England's jacket. "If I stay here, he'll kill me. I didn't think that he had it in him, Britannia, but that man will flat out _murder_ me if he gets hold of me now."

England scoffed as he plucked Adam's hands off his clothes. "America is not going to kill you. While he can be impassioned and bull-headed at times, he is also an optimistic diplomat at heart. I am sure that if you appeal to America he will grant you clemency. My assistance to you in this war nearly cost me all semblance of a positive relationship with America. I refuse to jeopardize it any further just because you're too frightened to handle the consequences of your actions."

Adam tensed up when the doorknob tried to turn behind them. When it wouldn't turn completely, someone knocked on the door. Fear contorted his face. England went to unlock it but Adam clamped his hands down on the nation's outstretched arm to prevent the action. His eyes were wide from fright as he whispered frantically, "Don't. Don't let him in. You can't let him catch me!"

"You don't even know if it's him, you fool." England pulled at the iron grip that Adam had taken his arm in. The door was knocked on again. He twisted his figure, letting his arm be pulled across the front of his body so that England blocked the taller man from stopping him as he flipped the lock with his other hand.

Adam released England, rushing backwards without taking his eyes off the door. England rubbed ruefully at his forearm where the southerner had pressed the flesh too hard. He glared at Adam for having caused him that pain, calling out through the door. "It's open now. Come in."

The door slowly swung open. Light from the corridor spilled into the dim chamber, highlighting the silhouette of a figure leaning against the doorframe. America tilted his head as he found England standing there, before his eyes danced over to where Adam was cowering deeper in the room. "Am I… interrupting anything?"

America could see England examining him. He knew that he looked more like his old self. He'd filled back out, not as thin and drawn as he'd been at the Conference in London. The physical strain was no longer present on his face, though exhaustion had left a stamp on it so that he appeared to have just gone through some grand ordeal – which he had. Despite that lingering aftereffect of tiredness, America had never felt better. Just by glancing at Adam, he could see that his southern counterpart was not anywhere close to being in the same good condition.

"No. You're not interrupting a thing." England told him with a pointed glance at Adam. "I was just about to head back out to check on Canada. Would you care to come with me?"

"Certainly." America said obligingly. "I haven't had a chance to speak with him yet, so that would be nice." He smiled at England as he swept his arm in front of him to indicate for the older man to lead the way. As England exited, America's gaze touched with Adam's, his smile creeping wider. "Try not to get lost – we have plenty of catching up to do, don't we?"

His eyes squinted shut as Adam went even paler, waving pleasantly. "I'll be seeing you later!" America was satisfied with catching a glimpse of the other man starting to tremble as he pulled the door shut behind himself and England.

* * *

The Council chamber was fuller during the proceedings this time. America checked the rows behind him with a glance. Canada and Hong Kong sat in the first row directly behind him, his brother flashing a reassuring wink at America that caused him to smirk. A few of the other British colonies had come along to fill up a few of the other rows here and there, though America wondered if Calcutta even knew what was going since the man kept blinking dazedly around at those speaking English. America still couldn't figure out how he had managed to wrangle them together in some strange, pseudo-fan club.

Adam sat at the opposite table all by himself. His eyes darted nervously towards the exits. Some of Canada's larger sized attendants were posted at each of them. When he had first noticed them, Adam had peeked at Canada to see if it had been intentional. All that Canada had done was smile at him with sham charm. The southerner was restless in his seat; it seemed that at any time he would take flight, escaping out the door if he could. He was seemingly incapable of looking in America's direction.

America drummed his fingers on his table as he returned to staring at the Council with a patience that he didn't truly feel. They were taking forever to reach a decision. America had stated to them in frank terms that the Confederacy had been defeated; what else did they need to hear that would hasten their decision? There was no need for Adam to be at the Conference any longer without a government to support him. All that America wanted was for them to tell the bastard to get the hell out.

He had informed Abraham about the proceedings here and what getting the Confederacy removed would mean for them. Considering how busy the man was handling the affairs of the nation, America did not truly believe that Abraham would be able to make it. While it would have been nice to have that secondary support, he had faith that the Council would acknowledge his victory.

Germany finished tallying up the votes as they were passed to him via folded papers from each of the seven nations that were on the Council. America's eyes touched on each of them to try and discern how they might have voted. With England and France back on the panel for this meeting, his chances were pretty good that the votes would go in his favor. It was hard to know what way the others would go; there were too many wild cards on the panel. America did not even want to begin trying to guess how Russia had voted – though he seemed to dislike Adam, the nation tended to treat things with a strange logic.

Grunting, Germany made a note on a paper in front of him on the bench. "The votes have been cast, regarding whether or not the Confederacy should still be allowed representation at the World Conference. After tabulating the votes, it has been determined by this Council that the Confederacy will indeed still be allowed to send their representative."

"What?" America's mouth dropped open in shock. "You can't be serious!"

"I am always serious." Germany informed him gruffly. "The votes were four to three in favor of allowing the Confederacy to remain. Those nations who cast their vote in favor of the Confederacy did so with valid reason: While you have shown up here telling us that you have succeeded in defeating the Confederacy, there has been no official word from your government to prove your claims. Until this Conference receives confirmation on an official level then we are unable to treat your declarations as anything other than here-say."

"But it's _true_! We won the war. It's over and the Confederate government has been dissolved! I don't see how much more proof that I require than that!" America told them with earnest frustration, still in disbelief that they refused him over such a minor detail.

Spain clasped his hands together. "Is there not still skirmishes taking place on your soil? I've heard rumors that there are clusters of Confederate units that are still staging attacks in some areas; until you guarantee that they cannot bolster their forces to refuel the war, how can you expect us to agree that you have successfully defeated them?"

"Without official word, we cannot act on the testimony of your feats alone." Austria said simply, mildly sympathetic. "If we were to base all of our decisions solely on the word of nations who claim to have defeated or conquered others, then Prus—certain nations—would have conquered half of the world by now."

France tapped a finger on the bench. "I must agree with Spain on his point, _mon ami_. We seasoned nations know from experience that unless a threat has become completely erased there is no guarantee that it will not rear itself up again. So long as the Confederacy has the will to fight than it is not our place to defeat their efforts. On that, we must be neutral."

"If you're that much in doubt, why don't you simply ask him?" America cocked a thumb in Adam's direction. "He can state just as well as I can that the Confederacy has been eliminated."

France's eyes swung over to land on Adam. "Well? Is what America says true? Has the Confederacy been soundly defeated?"

Pushing up slowly, Adam's mouth worked as he tried to figure out what to say in response. His haggard face hardened as the southerner murmured. "My numbers may have been defeated, but I will not agree that the Confederacy is gone completely. I would think that my existence is proof enough that the cause and the fight still live on in me. We have not given up."

"Then it is decided." Germany nodded. "Until this Council hears official word contrary to what has been said here, we will let the ruling stand. That is all." He picked up the gavel stationed in front of him, lifting it up in preparation to strike it down and close the session.

Germany was stopped halfway down when another voice spoke up from near the door. "Pardon me. Do I have the correct chamber?"

America whirled around at the sound of that voice. Several of the others were looking curiously at the newcomer who had just stepped into the room. They marveled at the sight of the bearded, older gentleman in his prim black suit and towering top hat. America knew that attire quite well, unable to recall a time that he'd seen Abraham in anything else. The man was walking briskly up the aisle. As he reached America's side, the young man sighed in relief. "You had me worried. I didn't think you were actually going to come."

"My apologies. I got lost on the way here. Fortunately, an energetic Italian pointed me on the right path after he'd become inexplicably fascinated by my hat." Abraham explained with dry humor. His eyes flitted around with a pleasant smile as he noticed all the stunned faces of the others. "It would seem that I arrived just in time."

Being the first one to shake the surprise, Germany demanded. "Who are you? This is a closed session. Identify yourself before we have you escorted out."

"Yes, yes." Abraham placed the suitcase that he was holding on the table in front of him. "Forgive me for my tardy arrival. I had intended to be here earlier but my duties with running America's government for him keep me operating at odd hours." He gripped the brim of his top hat, lifting it politely from his head. "Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth mortal in a line of Presidents that has had the esteemed honor and sometimes nuisance of being this young man's keeper." His head jerked to indicate America beside him before placing his hat back on his head.

"Oh. Ah, yes. In that case, you are most welcomed, sir." Germany's tone of voice had become respectful upon hearing Abraham identify himself. "Are we to understand that you have come here to support America's claims concerning the status of the Confederacy?"

"I have. Though I can't say for sure that I am in complete disagreement with the points made by your Council members either." Abraham began to unlatch his briefcase as he addressed the nations on the bench. "You see – we have not yet completely removed all traces of the Confederacy from the United States. As you gentlemen mentioned, there are still units throughout the southern half of the nation that undoubtedly plan to continue the fight. Of that I have little doubt." He pulled out some documents, long fingers tracing on the side of the papers as Abraham looked back up at the Council. "Where we must agree to disagree, gentlemen, is on the point of whether or not the Confederacy still poses a threat to the peace of the United States."

"As of this moment, I can legitimately claim that there is no hope for the Confederacy to repair itself. All of the officials have surrendered. What remaining units there are will be dealt with in a swift manner. We have already devised a strategy for how we intend to incorporate the southern half of the United States back into one cohesive nation. To save me the breath, I took the liberty of bringing you an outline of our plan to begin Reconstruction of the South." Abraham strode to the bench. He did not even need to stretch up in order to put the documents down on the top of it. "Once you gentlemen have read it over, I think you will be better convinced regarding our victory in this war."

Locking his hands together behind his back, Abraham strolled from the bench in order to pace in front of Adam's table. The southerner was glaring at him with open menace, enough of it that America tensed up, fearing that Adam might even be desperate enough to strike out at Abraham. The older man, however, was without any fear as he came to stand in front of the Confederate entity. "As to this young man. No one here could refute his claim that he is still around. He has expressed that he still wishes to fight, and considering the will of the people that are still championing for the cause of the Confederacy, I have no doubt that what he says is honest."

"However…" Abraham appraised Adam carefully. Then, with a thinning of his mouth, Abraham reached a hand across the table to where Adam was seated. The southerner flinched back from it, though not before Abraham could pinch his fingers around the rim of the eyeglasses on the young man's face. He plucked those glasses off of Adam, reflexes surprisingly fast for a man of his age. Adam grabbed for them too late. Abraham was already folding them up placidly in his hands. "It's high time that you return what doesn't belong to you. These are a piece of property that you no longer have the right to lay claim upon."

Adam lurched onto his feet, knocking his chair back as he growled at Abraham. "You son of a bitch! Give those back before I break you."

Abraham, ever a diplomat, outright ignored the threat as he returned to America's table. He held the folded eyeglasses out to the other man with a mild smile. "I think these belong to you, America. Perhaps now you will be able to read more than an inch away from your face again, hm?"

"…Thank you." America breathed out. He took hold of those offered glasses with reverence, balancing them on both palms as the young nation studied them intensely. It had been too long since he had felt their weight on his face. America fished a handkerchief out of his back pocket, beginning to clean them off as though they had been soiled by something foul.

He was just sliding them slowly into place when Germany turned away from conferring with the other nations in a low buzz of whispered words. America's eyes fluttered rapidly as they tried to adjust to the sudden clarity. Germany nodded decisively, confident that they had made their choice. Picking up his copy of the document, Germany said formally, "This document, given to this Council by the highest authority in the government of the United States of America, has provided enough evidence to sway the decision of the Council. Given this proof, we have decided that our initial choice to allow for the Confederacy to continue representation was incorrect. Therefore, we have determined that our true and final conclusion is that the Confederacy, being no longer a viable government entity, cannot seek further representation at this Conference."

Adam was squinting his eyes, glaring at the Council. "This is absurd! Y'all had just been prepared to vote in my favor. Now, because America's puppet swaggers in with some fancy-worded papers, y'all are ready to change your minds that quick?"

"That would be about the gist of it." England said lightly. His green eyes radiated satisfaction. "To twist a turn of phrase: You entered into this Conference with a whimper; now you will leave it with a bang. Germany?"

With a nod, Germany picked his gavel up again. "That is our decision. This matter is settled; our meeting is adjourned."

The sound of the gavel smacking down carried through the chamber. America thought, in some way, that it was one of the best noises that he had ever heard. He opened his mouth to congratulate Abraham, but a pair of hands seized onto the front of his jacket with sudden force, enough to make his teeth clatter together.

Adam had crossed the distance in a matter of moments. He shook America roughly, his earlier fear of the other man traded for rage. "Don't think this is the last of it! You haven't seen the last of me."

America swatted his hands away. Adam glared around the chamber at all those gathered here, his blue eyes burning as they fixed on America and Abraham. The southerner backed away from them, jabbing his finger in the air as he pointed at them one at a time. "Just you wait. This isn't over. You will see me again and the next time it will be the last."

"I think I can speak for the both of us when I say that we hope that _this_ will be the last time." Abraham said soberly. He placed a hand on America's chest when the young nation was on the verge of lunging at Adam. They both watched as Adam stalked out of the chamber, Abraham giving America a light pat before withdrawing his hand. "Put him out of your mind now. Even if he makes himself a pest, there is nothing that he can do now to prevent the inevitable."

America scowled at the door as it shut. "I know that. I do. But… it still doesn't shake the feeling that I have – that maybe we shouldn't have let him walk away."

"Be vigilant, America." Abraham told him. He pushed his briefcase closed. Some of the other nations had come near them, lingering apart from America and his president out of respect. Abraham slid his briefcase off the table with a small smile as he looked at the others. "In the meantime, you have some congratulations coming to you. I shall be returning immediately to Washington on the next train. Once you are finished here, come and visit me."

"Why don't you stay for lunch before you go?" America asked him. "I'm sure there are plenty here that would like a chance to speak with you, Abraham."

Abraham shook his head with a kind expression. "Thank you, but I'm afraid I must refuse. This is the bastion of nations, America. I am not here as a participant, only as a witness." He raised his hat again in parting, adding more dryly, "And I am admittedly quite intimidated in present company. Though I am a man of advanced years and experience among common men, here I am nothing more than a speck in time. Enjoy your lunch and your Conference, America. This day is yours."

* * *

"I still don't fathom how on earth I allowed you to talk me into doing this." England said loftily as he frowned out the window of the steam engine chugging them steadily along towards their destination.

They had traveled down from Canada's home, currently on route to America's capital in Washington. The younger man smirked at hearing England complain yet again about the trip. It wasn't as though he had forced the older man to agree – in fact, England had been flattered by the invitation from America. England just couldn't let his pleasure with the situation be known and instead masked it with his usual sniping comments. "We're nearly there, so just relax. No one else here is having as bad a time as you. Right, gentlemen?"

America's eyes swiveled to the pair seated on the opposite seat of their booth in the passenger car of the train. Canada shook his head with a mild smile, knowing just like America that the barrage of complaints was simply England being England. It took Russia longer to respond to the question. He had been glued to the window for most of the trip as America's landscape unfolded around them. Belatedly, Russia answered. "I am enjoying myself very much. I have not traveled on a train before – it is quite spectacular!"

America still couldn't recall exactly when he had even invited Russia along, or figure out how the nation even knew that they were going. The morning that they met at the station to leave, Russia had been waiting for them. He had been so full of wide-eyed wonderment, so effused with joy that America hesitated to inform the frozen nation that he wasn't welcome along on their trip. England and Canada had stood by indifferently, leaving him with the responsibility to deliver that news all on his own. America had wavered at the moment of truth. He ended up purchasing the fourth ticket like a chump, which spoiled England's good mood right away.

The three of them had endured England's temper ever since. Now that they were nearing the end of it, England's complaints had pinpointed to minor details when he had run out of broader generalizations to vocalize about. "This isn't a proper locomotive. It's nothing more than a glorified, lumbering metal carriage on wheels. I doubt that I have ever seen such shoddy craftsmanship before. A _British_ steamer would be much higher quality. They wouldn't be coughing out nearly half this much bloody steam. The seats are ten times more comfortable, and—" England twisted around in the booth to scowl as he searched the train for some sign of an attendant, his voice growing louder, "a person could at least get a bloody _drink_ without having to wait an hour at a time."

America shushed him at a hiss, smiling apologetically to the passengers around them. "Would you keep it down? If you're going to behave that way then it's no surprise why they don't want to give you any more liquor to drink. They are doing the best that they can – the train is just packed to capacity. I don't think I've seen a train this full before. Everyone is spilling into Washington to celebrate the end of the war. I would have stayed away to avoid getting caught up in all this chaos, but Abraham asked me to come."

"They deserve their celebration." Russia sounded understanding on the matter. "It was a few dark, dark years. Now they can revel in the light of their new dawn. America should be just as proud of his victory."

"Oh, I am." The younger man smiled as he adjusted his glasses. It felt like he had to get used to wearing them all over again. "We just still have so much work ahead of us. The road to rehabilitation is going to be a long one; I guess I'm just not ready to relax yet like the rest of them."

"Adam is still out there somewhere, too." Canada mentioned, as he brought up the subject that still weighed heavily on America's mind. "Has there been any word on how the search is going to find him?"

America shook his head, hands folding together on his lap. "Nothing yet. Really, though, if he is still anywhere in the United States then we will find him. He can face justice just like everyone else."

That topic effectively killed their conversation for the time being. Even England had ceased his complaints and gone quiet. They were all drawn to looking out the window with the exception of America. He gazed down at his lap, watching the motions of his thumb as he slid it over the flesh of the other hand.

There was still danger hiding out in his part of the world, so long as Adam remained unfound. The southerner had fled from the Conference complex immediately after the meeting with the Council, disappearing into the lower half of the United States. America knew that if the man was able to somehow rally the members of the South who had not yet given up the fight then it was likely that the war could stretch on despite the truce that had already been made. He did not enjoy knowing that his southern counterpart was still a threat looming over his head. America was ready to put it all behind him.

The whistle of the train shook him from his thoughts. America glanced out the window as he saw that they were approaching the station. He might have been swamped with concerns, yet it was hard not to smile knowing that he had come home.

* * *

Coming to the door of England's hotel room, America rapped his knuckles against it, his other hand balancing a small stack of books. He spoke to the man through the wood. "Britannia, are you in?"

It wasn't more than a few moments before the door opened. A green eye peered out through the crack, England's cautious stare softening with relief. "Oh, thank God. I thought you might have been Russia coming 'round to pester me again." He swung the door open, easing back a few steps as England gestured for him to come inside. "I'm nearly ready. We'll be leaving soon for the theatre, correct?"

"Yes. The coach should be arriving at any time to pick us up." America told him as he walked inside. His eyes quickly took in the furnishings, before fixing on the window. He brightened at what he saw. England was left at the door as America hurried to the glass. "Hey! You've got a great view of the city from your room. I only get to see the back of some buildings and the street from mine."

England went back to the small circular mirror on the wall beside the door. He fussed with his bowtie, speaking distractedly. "If you want, we can switch. It doesn't make a difference to me."

"It's okay. I can see the view anytime I want to. Since you're the guest here, I suppose it's only fair that you get to enjoy it while you can." America turned away from the window. He caught England's eye in the mirror, holding up the pile of books. "These are yours. I made certain to grab them out of the office before I came here to fetch you guys."

"Books?" England blinked in confusion. "Oh – you mean those Shakespeare novels?"

America nodded. He tapped his fingers against the spines. "These are the ones I borrowed from you. I'm sorry that I couldn't return them sooner."

Dropping his hands from his bowtie, England frowned at the younger man over a shoulder. "What do you mean? I never planned for you to return them, America. They were a gift." The man adjusted the cuff of his sleeves, checking around the room to see if there was anything that he was forgetting.

"Really?" America lowered the books to his hip, thumping them against it. "Here I'd been feeling like an ass for not having gotten them back to you, and the whole time they'd been a present?"

"It doesn't surprise me that you'd forget. You weren't entirely lucid when I gave them to you." England smiled faintly as he eyed the younger man. He swallowed a thick breath, straightening his shoulders into their usual rigid fashion. "How do I look?"

"Nervous as hell."

"I am nervous. Certainly you can understand why?"

America chuckled quietly as he put the books down on the windowsill for the time being. "Don't worry over it so much. It's been a long time since you burnt this city down – despite what you might think, we don't go around shooting the British on sight anymore." He teased the other man, eyes widening in mock seriousness. "Though you might want to keep quiet as much as possible, just in case."

"Oh, you're a riot." England said with thick sarcasm, eyes rolling. "You're fortunate that I even agreed to go. I can't imagine your American plays being the least bit entertaining."

"This one is special. It's quite popular here in the United States." America informed him, before adding, "And I think it is a piece that even you would enjoy."

England squinted at him doubtfully. "What's the name of it?"

"_Our American Cousin."_ America said.

"I hate it already." England droned as he twisted back to the mirror.

Now it was America's turn to roll his eyes. "Come on. It's got a good story behind it. This fellow dies and his estate falls into chaos back in England. So an American has to travel there to help sort everything out. It has all kinds of comedic happenings between him and his British relations."

"So you're saying that I should expect to have my culture mocked, then?" England asked him darkly.

"Well, somewhat." America said lamely. "Though it makes fun of Americans, too. You should enjoy _those_ parts, at least."

England stretched out a sigh. "I'll try it out. If it is horribly droll, I'll come back to the hotel after the First Act. How's that?"

"That sounds like a fair enough compromise." America smirked. Once England had abandoned the mirror, he headed over to stand in front of it, checking his own appearance. "Abraham and his wife will be there. He already knows about all of us but it would still be best if we introduce each other around by our aliases." He smoothed a few wisps of hair back into place behind his ear. "I guess that means I had better practice addressing you by that name. Arthur Kirkland."

"Alfred F. Jones." England spoke back to him.

"Arthur."

"Alfred."

America grinned. "Arthur."

England frowned. "Alfred."

"Arth—"

"Enough." England told him. "I won't be wrapped up in one of your games tonight."

America looked disappointed. His eyes turned to the door as Canada knocked and entered. America's grin resurfaced. "Matthew."

"Alfred." Canada replied automatically.

"Arthur."

"Alf—goddamnit!" England growled out.

America laughed at his success in drawing England back into his antics. Canada eyed them both cautiously, not sure what he'd just walked in on. "Uh, well. The coach has arrived. Russia is waiting for us downstairs already."

"Thank God. I'll sit through even the poorest farce if it will get me away from this fool." England said acidly as he removed his cloak from its hanger. The man was clasping it around his shoulders on his way out, brushing past Canada so that he could escape America that much faster.

Canada watched him go, before blinking at his brother. "What was that about?"

"Nothing. Just giving England a hard time like usual." America smiled at his sibling as he led the way to the door.

Closing the door to England's room behind them, Canada gave his brother a dire look. "I wish you'd stop doing that. I have to put up with him more than you do."

America was still chuckling as they went downstairs together. Russia was standing with the driver of the coach, speaking animatedly to the man as he asked several questions one after the other. England stood stiffly on the opposite side of the lobby with his arms crossed. His hostility towards Russia was apparent enough that the people who walked between them felt awkward moving through the span of tension that tied them together.

Greeting the driver, America waved them all along with him on their way out the door. He let England and Canada go in ahead of him, taking that moment to speak to Russia. "Hey – I don't even know what I'm supposed to call you in public."

Russia was confused. He gestured to his chest. "I am Russia."

"No, no – what is the alias that you use. You know… the name that you go by around your people? If I am going to introduce you to people tonight, I need to know what to call you."

"Oh." The bigger man smiled. "Sometimes, I sign papers with the name Ivan Braginsky. That is what you are asking me for, da?"

"Yes. That's perfect." America smiled lightly back at him, holding out a hand. "Ivan Braginsky. I'm Alfred F. Jones. It's a pleasure to meet your alias."

Russia gingerly shook his hand. "Da. Pleasure." The other man withdrew his hand, shrugging to himself as if deciding that whatever was taking place was beyond his understanding but was fine anyway. Russia pulled himself up into the coach, causing the whole thing to dip under his weight before it settled even again.

America stepped in after him, pausing to knock his hand against the side of the coach as he called up to the driver. "To Ford's Theater." Ducking in as the coach began to roll forward, America dropped into the seat beside England. England was angry, Russia was confused, and Canada seemed half-afraid. It was bound to be a promising night.

* * *

"Your president seems uneasy." Russia pointed out from his chair behind America's.

They were seated together in one of the theater's box seats, just across from the one decorated for Abraham's visit. America had leant his head to hear what Russia said, straightening it with a glance in the direction of his leader. Abraham was engaged in conversation with the young couple present in his box. Despite being outwardly pleasant, America could also see the strain in the older man's posture. "He's been having a rough few days."

"Bad business with the nation?" Russia asked him curiously.

"No. Bad dreams." America said quietly. His eyes stayed locked on Abraham's figure. The man had mentioned to him just that afternoon about the dreams that had been plaguing Abraham for the past few days. He had confessed to some sleepless nights due to how distressing they had been. America wondered if the man should have even come to this event. "I think he is hoping for the play to distract him from his troubles for a few hours."

England was thumbing through the playbill in the chair beside him. He had confessed to actually enjoying the play so far, which America saw as a small victory. Their conversation drew England's attention away from the text, though he had been trying very hard to pretend that Russia wasn't there with them. Going down into the lobby during intermission had been awkward due to their unhappiness with each other's proximity. "Bad dreams, you say? You could hardly blame the man given how cheery the last few years have been for the both of you."

"I'm not blaming him for anything. It's just… something about those dreams really seems to have bothered him." America said with a small shrug. "That's why I didn't want to turn down his invitation tonight. Abraham has had quite a strain put on him; I want to do what I can to return the favor, even if it is just little things like attending a show together."

"You seem a little bothered yourself." Canada murmured to him from the other side of England. "You've been restless since we arrived."

America couldn't disagree with his brother on that. Something had been nagging at him since the second he'd set foot inside the lobby of the theater. He normally didn't mind being in a place like this; the crowd of his own people around him usually soothed him despite the constant buzz their presence created in his brain. Tonight, though, America found himself on edge. There was nothing glaringly out of place that he could see – it was just a subtle feeling that something was off. "It's probably nothing. Maybe being cooped up in the train for that long just left me with some excess energy. I hate having to sit still for long periods of time."

England snorted into the folds of his playbill. No one else expressed any sort of surprise with his admission.

America squirmed around in his chair, curling his fingers around the arms of his chair as he tried to focus his energy so that he wouldn't raise such a disturbance for the others since the play was about to start again, heading into the second part of the Third Act. The attendants were already handling the lights now that the scene had been changed. People in the seats below were settling into their seats, the din of conversations quieting politely as the first string of the conductor's music began to play to signal the new part.

His eyes wandered through the rows of people, shadows flickering over their faces in the highlights of the foot lamps. America honed his search in on one particular figure standing remote from the others that snared his focus, mingling with those who stood on the fringes of the theater's seats. It wasn't long before America saw the man's head turn to glance towards the decorated box where his leader sat, the play of lights from the stage striking momentarily off wheat-colored hair, a glittering sky blue eye, and an all-too-familiar profile. America felt the breath come rushing out of him in one gasp, fingers closing around the arm of his chair hard enough that the resulting crack of the wood drew England's attention from beside him.

"America? What is it?"

"It's him. Adam. He's _here_."

"What?" England dropped the playbill onto his lap, stretching to peer over the balcony in disbelief. "Where?"

America was already out of his chair. He hurried to leave, wanting to get downstairs and investigate to see why the hell Adam was there in the theater tonight. Whatever the reason, it couldn't have been a good one. Russia had risen as well. The larger man held a hand to stop Canada as the colony began to leave his seat. "No. You both remain here. Do not draw attention. We will catch America's little doppelganger. Stay here and keep an eye on America's leader."

Russia bounded down the stairs on America's heels, the tails of his black coat trailing as the larger man stopped at the outside of the lobby curtain with him. Russia's violet eyes stretched further down the lobby with a frown. "There are two exits. If we both go in here, he might try to escape through the other. You go in this way and I will grab him if he tries to make a run for it."

America nodded silently. His blue eyes were ablaze with anger. How dare that southern bastard show his face here of all places! Russia ran off to the other side of the lobby as America eased in through the curtain. One of the attendants frowned at him for coming in while the play was in progress, though America ignored him as he searched the nearby faces. The opening music was still playing as he pushed through the crowd of people at the back of the theater.

He caught sight of his target again. America's face twisted as he shouted at the other man, just barely audible over the noise of the music. "Adam!"

The southerner's face turned his way. Adam's blue eyes widened as he noticed America standing there in front of the exit. He abruptly launched himself away into the crowd of people, heading for the other set of curtains now that he knew he'd been spotted. America saw him bumping into theatergoers on his way there, knocking a few people aside in his haste. When he neared the curtains, America turned around and hurried through the curtains on his own side of the theater to see if Russia was going to be successful in catching Adam.

He had surfaced from the theater just in time to see Adam double over from the fist that Russia had pushed into the vulnerable flesh of his stomach. America sighed with relief as Russia grabbed hold of the stunned man, stalking over to them both with long strides as he glared at Adam. "You. What the hell are you doing here? When did you come in?"

When Adam tugged against Russia's grip to test if he could slip out of it, the bigger man switched his hold on the slippery southerner. Russia locked an arm around Adam's neck to hold him in place, pinning him there with the threat of cutting off his air supply. Adam grimaced in anger and pain from the blow Russia had delivered. He glared at America over the top of Russia's forearm. "I don't have to tell you a thing."

"No?" America's jaw clenched. His hand flashed out, slapping Adam viciously across the face. "How about now? Did that make you feel a little more talkative, or do I need to be even _more_ convincing with you?"

"You can beat me all you want." Adam told him with a sneer, the southerner spitting out a mess of saliva and blood from where America's slap had split his lip. "It won't make one bit of difference. My boy is already set to do his work and there is nothing you can do to stop it."

"What are you talking about?" America demanded. "What boy? What work?"

Adam laughed, the sound high-pitched and crazed. He was a desperate man; the glint of it made his eyes burn with the need for success. "They wanted to kidnap him. I told them what a foolish idea that would be – you would just come and get him, in the end. No, no… they needed to do something more permanent. They needed to do something that even _you_ couldn't fix."

"He's babbling." Russia murmured to America over the man's head. He shook Adam a little to get his attention focused. "Answer America's question. How long have you been hiding in this theater tonight?"

"I've been here the whole night, and part of the day." Adam told him sullenly. "I had been enjoying this evening's performance until y'all decided to ruin my night. Though the best part of the show has yet to start – are you boys sure that you want to miss it? It should be any minute now."

"What are you trying to say?" America's uneasiness increased. His eyes darted from Adam's face to the curtains then back as a weight of dread crashed through his gut as harshly as Russia's punch had smashed Adam's. "You… You're planning to do something to Abraham, aren't you?"

"Not me, no. I merely guided them along on their plan, you see." Adam's hand scooted through the air as he smiled. "A little nudge here, a little suggestion there. They're boys after my own heart; Confederate spirits through and through."

"Russia…" America began, though the bigger man quickly waved him off with his free hand.

"Go. I will keep him here. Hurry."

Nodding, America pivoted around, breaking into a run in the direction of the stairs that would lead him up to Abraham's box. He had made it up a few of the steps when a sudden noise reverberated inside the theater. America placed that sound immediately. Already, he could hear the theater erupting into some chaos of noises, shouts of alarm accompanied by the higher-pitched screams of women.

The sudden wave of emotions washed over America from all of his people within. It crippled him, America gasping out as he tried to anchor himself against the onslaught, hands clutching blindly for the railing as he stumbled on a stair. He sagged against the metal support, eyes sightless for a few seconds until he was able to surface from the tumult of their reaction to whatever had just occurred inside. America swallowed thickly, having to find the breath to shout to Russia across the lobby. "R-Russia!"

He felt more than saw that the other man had come to him, dragging Adam unwillingly along. Russia kept steady pressure around Adam's throat as he held the other man in place; it was loose enough not to choke him yet tight enough to make the threat of such an act highly possible. His eyes touched with America's as the commotion in the theater reached a fevered pitch. Several people came running out of the theater downstairs, rushing their way up the stairs past the dazed America. They were struggling to get the double doors opened. The doors came open after a few more moments, admitting the people inside the box.

Adam had begun to laugh again, low in his throat. The glaze in America's eyes diminished with a wave of pure malice. Russia solemnly stared up to the top of the stairs. His face shadowed as some movement happened up there, prompting America to spin around to see the double doors at the top of the steps bursting open to admit a rush of people. Time seemed to slow down as they came pushing down the stairs, their urgency a near tangible thing, as America's eyes and his mind fell out of tangent – denying what he was seeing when the press of their bodies parted long enough for him to catch sight of the limp figure being carried in their arms like some frantic procession.

"No. No…" America shook his head slowly in denial. He rushed forward into the press of the men, looking at all of their grim faces. His hands reached out automatically to help them with their burden. America felt as if he'd become detached from his body. He moved numbly as his hands cradled the limp weight of Abraham's shoulders. "What… where are you taking him?"

"We need to move him." One of the men said. His hands and sleeves were slick with blood already. "We can't treat him here – we're going to carry him across the street."

"I'm telling you that it won't do any good." Another of the men argued dully. "You're just delaying the end."

Other people were pressing in to assist them. America was eventually buffeted out of the crowd by the pressure that they put on him. He stood and let the crowd go. America's eyes dropped down to his hands as he realized they were warm and wet. Silently, he stared at the blood that coated them. With a soft, keening wail, America forced his feet to get moving as he hurried after them through the doors to the outside.

* * *

The sky had opened up in a torrent of rain. They had already transported Abraham across the street to a house across the way. America could not bring himself to go in. He would only be in the way of the physicians that were attempting to save the injured man inside. People had been going in and out of the place the whole night. America had seen Mary being escorted away some time earlier, the woman in a fit of hysterics. He had wanted to comfort her. All that he had been able to do was stand there mute as they drove away in the carriage.

America knew that he was soaked from the rain. It had dotted his glasses enough that he could barely see through the lenses. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw drips of water falling from the locks of his hair that had now gone limp from the weight of the moisture. He knew that he should have been cold. America couldn't feel the wetness or the chill. His eyes were stuck on the lights of the house, watching the shadows of people moving frantically around inside.

He became aware of someone coming to stand next to him. America's eyes left the window, arching down to land on the man beside him instead. There was some distant shock to find that it was Russia; he would have expected Canada, or even England to be out here. He had all his fill of shocks for the night – it couldn't raise anything in him.

"I have left your treacherous twin in England's care." Russia said softly, his voice barely penetrating America's ears. "He will keep him under control until you decide what to do with him. Little Canada is helping to get everyone calmed down."

America didn't respond to him. Russia eyed him sidelong, before speaking again. "This should not have happened. It is apparent that the Confederacy's danger was underestimated. They may have been defeated but tonight they have had a sound victory. Danger like this will not cease overnight, not with continued inaction on your part. Your president was optimistic; now he is clinging to life."

As they stood together, America gazed off into the rain-thick night sky. Russia shifted his stance so that he invaded the younger man's peripheral. The soak of the rain had made his hair look like quicksilver, black clothes and pristine white scarf giving him the illusion of a funereal ghost made real. America stared straight through him, absorbed in the imagery.

"You know what must be done now." Russia was telling him, that accented voice as unhurried as molasses pouring into his ears. He felt the warm pressure of the man's arm curl against his back; a serpent's coil guiding him treacherously along as Russia continued to speak, low and persuasive. "America, you cannot hesitate any longer; your weakness has cost you the life of a great man, da?"

Russia's hand was reaching into his jacket. America felt the cold bite of metal being pressed into his grip by the other man. He felt detached from that hand, even as he lifted it higher to stare at the pistol that Russia had placed in it. America's fingers were too numb, shaking from the cold and slick with rain, to truly feel the weapon, even as he saw them lacing around the pistol – easy and practiced, like the caress given to a lover.

His eyes were swollen with the sight of an encouraging violet gaze; with the memory of blood on a starch white collar, the patient and kind eyes of a good man, a maze of corpses stretched side by side across the rolling fields of his land, and the calculating smile on a face just like his own. America blinked languidly at Russia's face as all of those things dominated his conscious mind. He felt his fingers twitch around the steel of the pistol. Russia nodded slowly at him. "Go. Do what you should have done at the very beginning."

America's piercing stare broke off from the man's face without a word as he walked back inside the theater. His arm hung limp at his side, the pistol clutched in his hand as he took one step in front of the other on a fixed path. Nothing would deride him from it; not even Canada who stepped away from the wall in the lobby to speak to him. The younger man's eyes lowered to the pistol in America's hand as whatever words had been on his tongue wilted. Canada shook himself out of his shock when America walked past him without even seeing him, the colony moving to take hold of his brother as Canada sensed, on some level, what his brother intended to do.

Russia was there, having trailed after America to watch what he would do. He smiled faintly and intervened just in time. One of the man's arms looped around Canada to keep him from stopping America. The struggles of the colony meant nothing to him, since his strength was so superior. Russia shushed him pleasantly when Canada began to call out after America. "Hush now. We elders know what America must do; I am curious to see if he can actually go through with it."

"Brit-!" Canada had begun to shout to the other nation across the lobby. Russia's hand folded across the man's mouth with a soft hum of displeasure.

England was pacing at the other side of the theater. He had Adam on his knees, the southerner secured with what appeared to be England's own bowtie, those hands tied together behind the young man's back. At the sound of Canada's voice, the man turned in that direction. He saw America approaching.

His face softened at the edges as he saw the state that the younger man was in. England took a few steps towards him, reaching a hand out to America's hair as he gently spoke. "You're a mess. Let me-"

America brushed him forcibly aside with a sweep of his arm. While England would normally have been fine taking such a blow, it caught him off his guard. He was propelled back against the nearby wall, the mirrored panes of glass shuddering with the impact. England was dazed, blinking up at America in shock that the man would do such a thing. "America? What in bloody hell are you on about?"

America ignored him, as his eyes landed on the face of his adversary. He saw the reflection of himself in the mirrors around the lobby; drenched in rain, clothes and hands stained red with the blood of his president.

His arm swung up, lining the pistol with the delicate flesh between those sky blue eyes. America squinted in time with the tightening of his trigger finger, though he did not want to flinch, did not want to miss the sight that he was about to see.

Breath filled his lungs, then expelled as his senses pinpointed in sudden clarity.

America pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

A shaken breath shuddered out of him. England spoke in a breathless whisper from somewhere beside him. "America… Put the gun down."

Adam was gazing up at him with wide eyes. America wondered if that was how he would look at the moment of his death. He grit his teeth and squeezed the trigger again.

_Click_.

"Russia…" He whispered vacantly, "…Why did you give me a gun that wasn't loaded?"

"It is loaded." Russia answered from somewhere behind him. He sounded like he was struggling. In the glint of the mirrors around them, America thought he saw England trying to get free of the hold that Russia had him in. For some reason, Russia's encouragement stuck with him better than the distant buzz of England's protests. "Perhaps America simply doesn't want to kill him?"

"No. I want to. I do want to." America said firmly. "I will."

_Click._

_Click._

Adam's eyes had left his face. They were panicked as they looked past where America was standing as the southerner shouted. "You can't let him do this! Someone stop him!"

"People are coming, America. You had better hurry." Russia sang to him. He grunted painfully as England's elbow connected with his ribs. It made him relent his hold enough on the smaller man that England was able to land another blow to Russia's solar plexus; that made Russia let go of him completely.

England pushed forward towards where America stood. "Wait! Don't!"

America pulled the trigger again. This time, there came the satisfying roar of a gunshot. He watched as the face in front of him blossomed in a spray of red. America's eyelashes fluttered as some of it blew up at him, spots of crimson dotting the lenses of his eyeglasses. Adam's figure sagged then went tumbling lifelessly over in a mess of blood and ruined bits of flesh. America thought that he could still see one of those blue eyes in that gaping wound. Something about the meat inside a person's face was fascinating in a morbid kind of way.

The gun went slack in his hand, spinning limply around the lengths of his fingers. It clattered to the floor as America dropped it. He continued to stare at the limp body of his southern counterpart, blank expression giving way to the tiniest smile. "I did it. Russia, I killed him."

England had a hold of him. He was pulling America away from the body, pushing him deeper into the lobby as a crowd began to gather. Russia sounded pleased. "And how do you feel?"

"I feel… absolutely nothing."

* * *

England stood at the window of his hotel room, arms folded across his middle as he watched the trails made by the raindrops as they spilled down the glass. It was already morning but neither of them had managed to get any sleep. He occasionally glanced to the bed to see if there was any change in America. Once he'd gotten America cleaned up and changed into clothes that weren't wet or soiled with blood, the young man had rooted himself on England's bed. America had curled up at the head of the mattress, knees drawn up tight against his chest, his face buried on the tops of them. He had not lifted his head once since then. If not for the occasional motions made by his twitching fingers, England might have thought that America had fallen asleep that way.

A shiver wracked through England. He was still in clothes that the rain had soaked on their haphazard way back to the hotel. Canada had volunteered to stay behind in order to receive news as soon as it was available. There was no telling where Russia had gone. England tightened the fold of his arms, uncurling his fingers from around his elbows in order to rub at his arms. "It's cold in here; do you want me to light a fire?"

As expected, he received no answer from the man on the bed. "All right. Than I shall do so for myself, if for no other reason." England began to tend to the small furnace in the room, trying to get it lit so that there would be some warmth.

A knock on the door caught his attention. He brushed soot from his hands as England approached it, opening it just a crack to see who might have been outside. It was a man that he recognized from the hotel staff. England blinked at him. "Yes?"

"Pardon me for disturbing you, sir." The man grimaced apologetically. "It's just that one of the other members of your party – Mister Braginsky – wanted me to ask if he was allowed to come visit your room."

England's eyes narrowed. The man didn't deserve being shouted at but that is precisely what he got. "Absolutely not! Tell that man to stay the hell away from this room and especially from _me_! In fact, draw some money from my account, purchase him a ticket, and tell him to get the _hell out of this country_!"

"Sir, I—" England cut him off mid-sentence by slamming the door shut in his face. That would hopefully get his point across.

Putting his back to the door, England rubbed his face with a growl of exasperated rage. "Can you believe that Russian _bastard_? If he even _thinks_ about coming to this door I will murder him. I don't want to see him, hear him, or breathe the same air as him. Not after that stunt tonight."

England went to stand beside the bed. "America? Are you even listening to me?" The young man didn't even give him the benefit of a nod or a shake of the head. England sighed heavily. "Look, it… it's terrible, what happened tonight. You can't let it get to you like this."

America's head came up. He stared blankly into the air in front of him. "It isn't often that a person gets an opportunity to see what they would look like in the moment of their death."

"That's true…" England responded with reluctance. He didn't like that being the first thing to come out of America's mouth.

"I got to see it last night." America murmured flatly.

"America, you need to… need to try to let it go." England pleaded with him gently. "Don't dwell on such dark thoughts. It won't do you any good. In fact, it will merely make things worse."

Those words prompted America into silence again. England shook his head. There seemed no way at all to console the other man. Certainly no methods that England felt comfortable enough to use for him anymore – those old tricks were lost to time and too much hardship between them. He scowled at the door when there was another knock. Had Russia actually come calling despite England's warning?

Stomping over to the door, England jerked it partially open, barking out at a shout. "_What_?"

Canada stood there, eyes dull and dripping wet. He didn't even react to England yelling in his face except for a sharp blink of his gaze. "May I come in?"

"Oh. Goodness, yes. Forgive me. I thought… thought you might have been Russia."

"As you can see, I'm not Russia." Canada said quietly as he stepped into the room.

He went straight to where his brother sat on the bed while England shut the door. Canada was bolder with the other man in ways that England no longer could be; his hands fit on either side of America's head to lift it. When he had it angled well enough, Canada put his forehead squarely against his brother's, their glasses hitting lightly together. He whispered, "America, are you all right?"

"No. Yes. No." America wavered with his answer. Canada's hands left his face, soothing up through his brother's hair with careful, slow affection. He gathered America's head to his chest. His brother didn't seem to mind the wet, cold fabric of Canada's shirt.

England felt useless as he stood nearby. With a few motions, Canada had managed to pull off what he had failed to in rousing America a little. "You're here, so I gather that there is some news for you to tell us?"

"There is." Canada answered softly. He tightened his hold on America, as if sharing some of his brother's pain with him. "America… I am so, so sorry. There was nothing that they could do for him. President Lincoln passed away less than an hour ago."

"I know." America said faintly. "I felt him go."

"They have launched a manhunt to try and find the shooter. Apparently it was some well-known actor that was a Confederate sympathizer. It was all part of some larger plot; your Secretary of State was attacked as well. He will survive, though."

"He can't have gotten very far." England interjected quietly. "I'm sure that they'll find these men soon."

America's features were pinched with pain that wasn't physical but was nevertheless powerful. "Britannia…"

"Yes?"

"You can't… you mustn't blame Russia for any of this." America told him in a voice that was husky with emotion. "He was right all along; I should have ended Adam's life years ago when I had the chance. Adam shouldn't have been allowed to roam free as he did. The blame lies with me."

"America, don't say that." Canada ordered him gently. "None of what happened here is your fault."

"It was. Really, it was. Had I just had the courage to do what needed to be done then this might have never happened." America told him bluntly. "It's not that I feel like I deserve the blame – it's just that I know that is the truth. My lack of action got a man killed. A brilliant, kind, gentle, good man."

"You could not have prevented what happened tonight, America." England shook his head. "Though you may not believe it, sometimes fate works in ways that we cannot anticipate. We are nations; we are not infallible. Even if you had eliminated Adam shortly after his appearance, there is no guarantee that things would not have still turned out this way. This was a man killing another man. Whether we want it to happen or not, there is nothing that we can do to stop it from happening day in and day out."

"Regardless, it was an error on my part. I won't let my reluctance to do what is right outweigh the need to do what is necessary any longer." America murmured. He gently shook himself free of Canada's grip, unfurling his limbs as he made his way off the bed. "I should get to the capitol. There will be so much work to be done. I regret being unable to see you both off but I am sure that you can understand, given the circumstances."

"America, wait…" Canada called after him.

"Sorry. I can't." America said from the door without even looking back at his brother. "You two don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I always am."

With those words, he opened up the door to the room, stepping outside and leaving the two nations behind.

* * *

_Texas - 1917_

The skies over Texas were colored with the hues of sunset when Canada finally arrived at the remote ranch in the middle of the desert landscape. It had been an atrocious trip to the location; he was not used to the heat of this climate, the suit that he'd worn for the visit perhaps not the best choice for the weather given the layers of garments. Canada swiped the sleeve of his white shirt across his forehead to mop up some of the sweat that beaded his skin, his jacket already thrown over the opposite arm as he stepped down nimbly from the stagecoach that had run him here from the closest town some number of miles away.

There were lights inside; the cabin looked inviting now that the desert was quickly cooling off in complete contrast to the heat that he'd suffered through all day. Canada left the driver to tend to the horses as he approached the home. It had been a couple of years since he had seen the lone resident and owner of the ranch – in fact, despite being so close to the border, not even Mexico had caught a glimpse of America the entire time. Everything was dusty. The porch really needed a good sweeping, but Canada figured that it probably was a futile struggle given the dry conditions of the environment.

His foot had just touched down on the first step when the door of the cabin burst open. Canada blinked rapidly as a blur of color came rushing at him. He grunted as America collided into him, limbs winding around him with enough force that they nearly went spilling over to the ground. It was fortunate that Canada was resilient enough to withstand even America's enthusiastic strength. America smelled like horses, dirt and sweat. The combination wasn't bad – it was the scent of America's wild, sprawling deserts. Still, it did overpower his nostrils a little. Canada delicately wrinkled his nose. "You really smell."

"You're no spring flower yourself, you know." America told him without having taken offense to the remark. He gave his brother an affectionate squeeze, pressing Canada away to hold him at arm's length, as America looked the other man over. "Wow. Look at you! It's only been a little while since I've seen you but you have sprouted up like a bean pole!"

"It's been two years." Canada corrected him. He endured being manhandled by his brother until America began to boldly prod at his stomach. That hand was swatted away with a tiny frown. "You look well yourself. Living out here in the middle of nowhere hasn't treated you too harshly."

America shrugged. He was giddy just from seeing a familiar face - especially the face of his brother. It almost seemed like he couldn't stop touching his sibling, patting Canada on the shoulders, the sides of his arms. America couldn't be satisfied until he had cemented the reality of his brother actually being in front of him in his mind. "I love it out here. It just seemed right to travel down here to live for a while. Texas is a beautiful patch of land if you know how to appreciate it right. Now come on, come inside."

When Canada didn't put up a protest, America ushered the other man inside with a hand on his arm. He flushed at the state that his cabin was in; America had not bothered to keep things tidy. "Don't mind the mess – I've been out driving cattle for a few months and haven't had time to straighten the place up. Though I wasn't really expecting company." They sat together at the small wooden table in the center of America's living area, their movements falling automatically into unison without effort. America stared at his brother, blue eyes dancing brightly, as he shook his head. "I can't believe that you're here. What the hell brought you all the way down to Texas? That's quite a trip for you."

"I wanted to check up on you." Canada admitted quietly, hands folding peaceably on the tabletop. "Your behavior was something I could not tolerate any longer. There were only so many times that I could stand having your letters returned to me before I decided that I needed to just come and see for myself where you had vanished off to."

"Sorry." America blanched regretfully. "I had not meant to leave you in the dark about my location. Even my officials back in Washington don't know exactly where I am."

Canada nodded solemnly. "That's what they said when I tried to get some clue as to where you'd gone from them. It took an exceptional effort to track you down. You have become a hard person to find."

Looking around the cabin, Canada murmured, "You haven't attended any of the Conferences for the past two years. Everyone has been curious as to where you were since the last time you made an appearance was at the end of your war. They have even pestered me, thinking that I'd have some inside information." Canada stared at him intently. "I can understand if you wanted to hide away from the rest of the world for awhile; I just can't understand why you would feel the need to hide from _me_."

"You know why. You should know without me even needing to tell you."

"I _know_ why. Like I said, I just can't _understand_ why. It makes no sense to me why you would decide to come down here and… and hide."

"It's not that I'm hiding. I guess it's just my way of mourning, you know?"

"What are you mourning? I know that it hasn't happened to you before, but two years seems like a long time to mourn the loss of one man."

America shook his head with a scowl. "It's not just about Abraham's death – that is just part of the entire picture. I am also mourning the loss of all those lives that died in the war, for the people on both sides that have not yet completely recovered from everything that happened. My time away from everyone is also my way of repairing _myself_. It feels like I am still too worn thin, too brittle, to be of any use to anyone."

"You should at least make the effort to answer your letters." Canada told him, gentle but stern. "Some important things have happened while you have been living in seclusion."

"Oh? Like what?" America asked him curiously.

Canada's eyes dropped to the table. He smiled serenely. "I became an independent nation this year. July first – a few days before the anniversary of yours."

America's eyes widened. "Really?" His face blossomed with a broad smile. "That's wonderful news! Do you mean to tell me that you went to war with Britannia and couldn't find me in time to invite me along?"

"There wasn't a war over it." Canada said dryly at his brother's enthusiastic remarks on fighting England. He fidgeted his fingers together with a nonchalant shrug. "He just… let me go. It was a mutual agreement. There was really nothing more that I could do for him as I was."

"He 'let you go'? Without a fight?" America was astonished by this piece of news.

Canada slid his thumb over the top of his other hand, uncomfortable. "Well. I was never very special to him. Not like you were. Especially not after you rebelled. Britannia cut such emotional ties to his colonies after you had gone; my separation was therefore not as hard for him to handle."

"Does it bother you that he didn't fight to keep you as part of his empire?"

"No. I suppose not." Canada murmured. "It has been a long time since I have endeavored to want or hoped to obtain his affection. He was always bothered by the presence of my French heritage; I have never been completely his, not in the way that you were."

Those words made America squirm in his chair. He felt so far removed from the years of his childhood. Hearing Canada speaking about it so casually made America uncomfortable. There was too much complication now in his relationship with England; those distant days had become nothing more than an unreal memory. America eyed his brother flatly. "If I promise to attend the next Conference, will you promise to stop talking about Britannia?"

Canada chuckled quietly, head canting to the side as he smiled sweetly. "If you promise to attend the next Conference, I promise to even stop talking about _me_."

* * *

**A/N: **Thus ends the saga of the American Civil War. I hope that its climax did not disappoint.

It was reported by one of Lincoln's officials that the president confessed to having a vivid dream three days before his assassination. He dreamt that he was wandering in the White House, hearing invisible weeping. Eventually he found people in mourning over a figure in a coffin. After asking one of the mourners who they were weeping for, they told him that they were in mourning because the President was dead. Lincoln was said to have seen it as an omen for the future. Despite it, his death still was not prevented.

Abraham Lincoln was the first American president to be successfully assassinated. He was mourned not only by the members of the Union, but by much of the South as well.

I could go on about the Assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the events following his death, but there is really too much to share. I would advise anyone who is interested in the subject to look into it, through the various sites that explain the series of events that took place leading up to and after the assassination.

Canada gained independence on July 1st, 1867. Two years after the end of the American Civil War. Go Canada, eh?

The history of America will resume in the next installment.


	8. Chapter 8

Hello readers. I actually managed to get an installment done quickly this time around. Honestly, I felt it was important to try and meet the deadline of posting something for America on this particular day (9/11 will always be deeply significant in my heart, even a decade later).

After the dark subjects of the last part of the Civil War, this installment is far more light-hearted. The end of the century is coming to a close - and a new era is about to begin.

* * *

_World Conference – 1890_

Out of all the many responsible things that they could have been doing, the two nations of North America ended up outside on a warm, sunny day in the middle of the grass fields stretching beyond the complex of the Italian site of this year's Conference. The distant hills were covered in a winding maze of vineyards as far as they could see. Their attention, however, was on the sky high above their heads.

America and Canada lay together on their backs, shoulders barely grazing. Canada rested a forearm across his forehead, shadowing his eyes from the glare of the sun as he checked on his brother resting there beside him. "Does it bother you that it's coming up so quickly?"

"Does what bother me?" America asked him drowsily. He had given up on watching the clouds float by a few minutes ago. Instead, America had settled his cowboy hat over the top half of his face. He'd just been about ready to doze off when Canada's voice pulled him out of his relaxed state.

"That our 'anniversary' is coming up." Canada snorted at having caught his brother about to sink off into a nap. He leaned enough to pluck the cowboy hat off the top of America's face, resting it on his own head instead. "In two years – four hundred years since the discovery of 'the New World'."

America scowled as his hat was stolen from his possession. He was too comfortable to fight to get it back. Lacing his fingers together, America cradled the underside of his head with his hands as he blinked in surprise. "Has it really been that long? I hadn't even been paying any attention."

Canada smirked at him from under the shadow of the hat's brim. "It didn't seem strange to you that everyone was congratulating you today?"

"I thought it might have been because of all the useful inventions that have come out of my land these last few years." America shrugged. "Now it makes a little more sense why the Europeans were acting so smug this morning during breakfast. Though they spent more time congratulating _each other_ than they did paying me any attention."

Canada laughed quietly. "Can you blame them? It was quite an accomplishment for the time. They had been fighting over the same old territories for so long and suddenly they realized that there was a whole entire other landmass to get into battles over."

"I'm sure that a few of them don't see the anniversary as a cause for celebration." America mused with a smirk. "Though it does seem like we should do something to commemorate the occasion, don't you think?"

"You want to throw a party?"

America shook his head. "No, no – nothing like that." He thought over the possibilities. They needed something to mark the occasion without making it an entirely selfish affair. "What we should do is host an event like Britannia did!"

"The Great Exhibition?" Canada's eyebrows went quirky as he listened to the proposal. "You want to have a World's Fair in North America? I don't have the time or the resources right now to host something of that scale."

"Oh." America deflated as the idea was shot down so quickly. "Okay. Well, I guess we'll think of something."

* * *

America thoughtfully speared at the green vegetables on his plate at dinner. He let his fork hang limp in his grip as he turned his attention from his food to the man across the table. Canada continued to dine without interruption until the weight of his brother's stare finally drew his focus. The other nation was still learning the inner workings of how the others operated - though it did not take any extra knowledge to know that the look on America's face meant something. He waited for the pressure of that stare to finally weigh heavily on his patience before even daring to ask. "What is it?"

"I just had an outrageous thought." America announced to him as a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

Canada's eyes narrowed behind his eyeglasses, the violet a shade darker with suspicion. An idea from his brother meant either something oddly brilliant or highly alarming. Picking his napkin up from where it lay across his lap, Canada steeled himself internally against whatever potential madness could spawn out of his sibling's mouth. "All right. I'm ready to hear it. What was this idea of yours?"

America's fork clattered down onto his plate. He laced his fingers together now that he had the other man's undivided attention, leaning forward over the table with a conspiratorial peek around them. "Well. Visiting all of these other locations is all well and good, but I think that it's high time that I take a shot at it, don't you?"

"Take a shot at what, precisely?" Canada asked him, eyebrows pulling together.

"Hosting. The Conference? I think that I should petition to try it."

For some reason seeing the look of shock on his sibling's face left America feeling considerably pleased. He reached a hand across the table to swat Canada on the shoulder with a friendly, enthusiastic pat. "Great! Glad that you agree with me. I'm going to run and tell the Conference Organizer. See you later!"

* * *

_World Conference – 1893_

America stood at the base of the massive Ferris wheel that currently towered over most of Chicago. He had made it a point to come out here to observe for himself how well the Fair was proceeding. His duties as the host nation for the World Conference were not has involved as he had prepared for; that had left him with more time than he had imagined he would have. Frankly, that was the ideal situation, as far as he was concerned. It might have been a bad time to try to host a World's Fair and a World Conference – America was afraid that he wouldn't be able to enjoy both.

Escaping out as soon as he had been able, America rushed straight to this spot. He had been excited to hear that it was going to be erected for the Fair. Ever since he'd heard about the invention of the ride he had been dying to go on it. Watching the construction from his temporary office in Chicago had been leaving him restless as America had been forced to view the progress of its construction from a distance. Now that the Wheel had been transformed from the skeletal chaos of wood into this magnificent display in front of him, America knew that it exceeded everything that he had imagined it would be.

He was leaning against the wooden railing that lined the perimeter of the street on the opposite side, watching as people loaded up into the individual cars. Men and women, children – both native and foreign, came from all over to try it out. America was impressed by the reports of the numbers that had come across his desk just that morning. Already, they had blown the success of past World Fairs clean out of the water. Hearing of how well it had all turned out left him feeling good. It was reassuring that his first time as a host was going so smashingly.

"Are you going to go on?"

America didn't need to turn to identify that particular speaker. He smirked with his eyes still high on the top cars of the Ferris wheel. "You're aware that many of the others think that my Fair is better than yours was – I'm surprised that you're not off sulking about it."

"Don't be ridiculous." England told him stiffly. The elder nation came to lean against one of the posts near to where America was standing. His arms were crossed over the layers of his attire, dull colors in a gray palette. It was the style of his country – everything buttoned down and hidden under layers of fabric. Clear down to the careful tilt of his hat, England appeared the perfect picture of a gentleman and nothing at all like the occasional cutthroat empire in its usual flair of red. "I am not that childish as to begrudge you your success. I'm pleased at how well it turned out for you."

"Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. That's the important thing." America pointed out with a more genuine smile. Color spread over the fringe of his cheeks given that what England had just told him came in the form of one of the island empire's rare compliments. He finally tore his eyes away from the turning wheel and glanced at the other man. "I'm surprised to see you out here. This doesn't seem like the sort of thing that you'd enjoy."

England's green eyes were darkened by irritation when he returned a look. "That is what you get for making assumptions about what I do and do not enjoy. You would do better to reserve your judgments until you know all the facts." He uncrossed his arms, adjusting the way that his hat was seated atop his head when a breeze disturbed it as he added, reluctantly, "I… It's a marvel, really. There are so many new things to see that it feels overwhelming. All of this technology in just a few years – you have been busy over here, haven't you?"

"Being isolated has its benefits." America murmured. "Not only do we have a lot of time to think, but we also have a ton more of it to spend tinkering around with bizarre new things." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess when you're a nation of idealists then there are few limits to what can be imagined. So we come up with things like this." America gestured in the direction of the wheel.

"Some of your inventions are extraordinary. Others are rather silly. Like, for example, that hat." England's gaze flicked up to the top of America's head. "It has been a running joke ever since you showed up in it to the Conference all those years ago. What do you call it again?"

America frowned. "My cowboy hat?" Hearing that it was a source of amusement for the other nations left him feeling self-conscious, draping a hand protectively upon the brim. "What's wrong with it? It's become a cultural icon here."

England shook his head. "It really doesn't do anything to improve your image among the other nations. Many of them already suspect that you are nothing more than an uneducated bumpkin that was only lucky enough to get a good patch of territory."

"They can think what they want about me. This Conference and my Fair should speak for itself." America rolled his eyes at the thought of some of the others thinking of him in such a way. "Besides… I lived in the West for quite a few years now. It is practically its own unique culture. There is really no way for people to understand it unless they experience it for themselves."

He paused. It had just caught up to him that England had told him that he thought America's hat was silly. With that tidbit, it wasn't hard to put together the fact that England was amongst those nations that believed him to be an uneducated bumpkin. America scowled. Why had he not expected that England would eventually work an insult into their otherwise civil conversation?

Luckily, there was a good way to show England a perfect example of what he was talking about. America shoved himself away from the railing, turning his back on the Ferris wheel with an upturned eyebrow at England. "You know…it's rather hypocritical of you to tell me that I shouldn't make assumptions about you when you are standing here making assumptions about the wilder side of my culture. Right now your people are going through some phase where they think everything is uncivilized or immoral. I think if you saw it for yourself, your opinion would change."

"I am not traveling to your uncivilized western territories." England scoffed at the idea.

"You don't have to go that far." America informed him, suddenly inspired to prove himself to the other nation. "In fact, you don't even have to travel further than the next few blocks over to see for yourself what I mean."

He looped his arm in England's and tugged on it with a charming grin. "Come on. I think it's time that you receive a proper education on the American way of life."

* * *

When they walked out of the colorful tent together, America was feeling pretty smug. He noticed that the man at his side had lost all strain of complaints partway into Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. America stopped alongside one of the broad posters advertising the entertainment phenomenon, studying the images on the faded paper as he gave England some time to register everything that they'd just seen.

England's mouth opened. Shut. Then it opened again as he scowled in confusion. "Do you… do that sort of stuff?"

"Not all the time." America fisted a hand on his hip as he regarded the older man with a smile. "I mean – only when I'm living on the range, dealing with cattle and the like. It's not like I walk around wrangling things at random times or anything."

"Wrangling? Like the… the thing with the rope?" England's hands moved through the air as he mildly mimicked the motions of the act they had seen with the lasso being tossed over a running calf. "Have you done things like that as well?"

"I have. Sometimes it's the only way to catch a steer that's running loose from the herd."

America was a little surprised once he'd caught a good look at England's face. He had not expected to see the other man so animated, so mesmerized with everything that they had seen during the show. During the performance, there had even been a pleasant moment when America had snuck a glance at the other man, only to see that England had been utterly riveted with watching the performance. So much so, in fact, that the usual tension had gone absent from the man's face, and England's green eyes and been wide with wonder.

Naturally, America wasn't going to bring it up. Pointing something like that out to England would only anger the older nation. He was content to keep the knowledge of having pleased the fussy island empire as his own secret. England didn't even notice the faint, knowing smile on America's face – he was absorbed now in gazing at the posters on the side of the tent. "It is rather impressive. The discipline, all the skill it must take to pull such feats off. I have seen armies perform more poorly compared to how organized the entire affair was."

England's eyes were dazzled as he gave America a rare, genuine smile. "I think that Germany would love to see this. Have you mentioned it to him?"

"Not yet. Though I will take it under advisement." It was hard not to share the moment. America felt his face softening the longer that he gazed at the older nation. He was so surprised by how much England resembled his old self; that smile and the look in those eyes reminding him of his childhood, when America's own fascination with the world around him got England caught up in admiring it too.

America dropped his eyes away from the sight of that face. Such history was ancient now between them. As awkwardness seized him, America adjusted his hat. "Well. It is getting late. I need to get back to the complex to make sure that everything is ready for the morning. Will you be comfortable returning there on your own?"

"Of course. It isn't too hard to navigate this city." England told him dryly. Then it was his turn to become uneasy. The man's face turned aside, eyes puckering in the corners as England struggled internally with something. He sounded as if it took every ounce of willpower to make the admission, saying, "I… enjoyed myself tonight. You were right in telling me that I had no right to judge the culture without experiencing it. Thank you for allowing me to see it for myself."

"You're welcome." America was taken back by the gratitude. He couldn't remember England ever having thanked him for anything. It made his grin expand. "Hey, maybe one of these days I'll teach you how to use a lasso. Then you can practice hog-tying France when he gets out of hand."

England snorted at the comment. Then, as the idea and the accompanying imagery flashed through his mind, he dissolved into a low chuckle. A hand curled up in front of his mouth to mask the amusement. "Perhaps. Though I fear that he would misinterpret my intentions in doing so. Honestly, the man has a way of turning everything into—"

A sudden explosion of noise from the crowds nearby interrupted what England had been about to say. They both looked in that direction as the buzz of voices grew in volume. Some of them sounded alarmed. America's head whipped in that direction as an emotional wave buffeted him from that position. People were confused, alarmed, angered by whatever was taking place.

He abandoned England there by the tent as America jogged forward to the press of the crowd. Tall enough that he towered over some of the people, America pushed gently with his shoulder to cut a path through the standing bodies. His fingers were already working at the buttons of his jacket, voice lifting with authority as he spoke over the noise of the crowd. "Federal Marshall coming through. Clear out, clear out!" America stepped into the open circle in the ring of the crowd. He scowled at what he saw.

Two of his uniformed police officers had Spain standing at gunpoint. The nation appeared very unhappy with the situation. America initially wondered if it was some kind of misunderstanding that had gotten out of hand, until he noticed that there was another nation sitting on the street on the opposite side of the police. The nation on the ground was cradling the side of his face with a deeply tanned hand, dark eyes glaring daggers at Spain over the shoulder of one of the officers.

Great. Some sort of international dispute was happening right in the middle of his Fair. America sighed heavily. So much for having expected that he could keep the peace through the entire affair. If he was going to sort this out, the first thing that he needed to do was diffuse this situation before it had a chance to escalate.

Turning, America flagged his arms at the crowds, voice ringing out. "Nothing to see here, folks! Move along now. Nothing to see at all – please return to enjoying the Fair." He kept repeating himself until the people eventually broke away. A few lingered on the outskirts so that they could gawk at the events. America saw that England remained on hand – the older nation was glowering at Spain.

America shifted his attention to the police officers. He peeled back the left side of his jacket, the gold star badge flashing in the lights that dotted the street. "Federal Marshall Alfred F. Jones here. What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?"

The first policeman, with flaming red hair, turned his eyes sourly between America and Spain. Even before he opened his mouth to speak, America anticipated the thick Irish brogue that came pouring out him. "This here fella decided it would be a riot tae pick a fight with this boy behind me. He didn't take kindly tae us stepping in tae help the other fella either, right, boyo?"

"No, sir, he did not." The other officer replied with a matching accent. "I t'ink if we take him down tae the station then he might learn some manners, eh?"

"Gentlemen, that won't be necessary." America told them calmly. He lifted both hands up to appeal to them, trying to get them to put their weapons down. "We have him more than outnumbered now and he certainly seems to be sorry for his actions. You are sorry for your actions, right?" He grated out the last bit as a warning to Spain.

Spain looked from the armed police officers to America, green eyes a little wider than normal. He nodded quickly. "_Si. Si! Lo siento muy_. I am very, very sorry."

Both of the officers hesitated. They seemed inclined to ignore America's interference. However, that badge put him at a higher rank than them. He did not want them walking away angry. America placed a hand on a shoulder of both men, smiling at them proudly. "You both did an excellent job getting the situation under control. This appears to be an international incident, though. I will handle everything from here – you gentlemen can get back do keeping our streets safe."

That hand on their shoulders did more to persuade them than anything. America found that as he pushed his desire for them to leave, they made up their minds to do so. Holstering their weapons, the red-haired policeman narrowed his eyes at Spain. "You just be careful how you behave in our streets, lad."

The two officers began to walk off together down the midway. As they were about to move out of earshot, the dark-haired one spat derisively onto the ground with a grumble. "Damn foreigners'll be taking this city tae the Devil."

America tried not to dwell on the irony of the situation. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, unsettling his glasses on it as he tried to quell a headache that threatened. Exerting his will like that always caused it. When he dropped his hand, America turned his eyes from Spain to the other nation. "Hey. Are you okay?"

He extended his hand for the nation to take, blinking when it was batted aside with as much derision as the policemen had had towards Spain. America retrieved his hand to hang at his side as he watched the nation climb up onto his feet. The man was tanned, obviously from a location full of sunshine. His dark hair was woven into intricate braids that America had never seen before. He was focused entirely on Spain, glaring menacingly at the other man. "You can knock me around all you want. Don't think that I am going to take being bossed around by you any longer. I said it before and I will say it again - my people and I can do just fine without you."

The unknown nation stalked past America, his shoulder colliding with America's hard enough that the taller one took a step to keep steady. America's head twisted in order to watch the man go stomping off into the crowds of people enjoying the Fair. "What was that all about?"

His irritation and confusion was nothing compared to England's. The island empire had marched over as soon as the other nation left them, immediate with his demands. "Spain, you idiot bastard, what the hell are you on about?" He seized hold of the front of Spain's shirt with his right hand, shaking the man sternly. "Getting into a fight with Cuba in the middle of the damned street – are you out of your sodding mind?"

"I didn't expect it to get out of hand like that." Spain said in his defense. He swatted at England's hand to get free of that grip. Once he was released, the man straightened the wrinkles out of his shirt with a frown. "He has been getting difficult lately. I had wanted to warn him that it wasn't going to end well for him if he kept trying to get me angry. You know how difficult rebellious colonies can be."

England growled at the comment. "That still doesn't mean that you should go around disciplining one in public like that. For God's sake, man – at least do it privately so that it doesn't turn into a spectacle. Just give him an earful back at the complex and be done with it."

America folded his arms at the men's choice of words, an eyebrow elevating on his forehead. It seemed that Spain realized what he had said in America's presence, flushing apologetically. Still, that came too late to prevent America's irritation. "Be that as it may… I really don't appreciate you getting into a fight with another nation here, Spain. Even if you do control them, this isn't just any old country. This is the United States of America and while everyone is here, they will be treated as equals."

Even England took those comments with some uncertainty. "Wait – what? America, that seems a little—"

"No. It's just how I expect things to work." America shook his head firmly. He braced his hands on his hips, broadening his stance as he looked at each man in turn. "So long as the Conference is hosted on my soil, then that is how things will be. You two can lord over your territories as much as you want while we're in Europe; this, however, is the New World. We do things a different way."

His blue eyes were quite serious as he met both shades of green stares. "You can either respect that or you can get the hell out of my country. Those are your choices."

England was mute with shock. Spain, however, narrowed his eyes at America's bold statements. "You, America, sound like you are getting a little too big for your britches. What makes you think that you can dictate to me what I can and cannot do with my colonies? You do not have the right to tell me what to do – I am an empire. Not as big as Britannia, no, but I deserve a certain respect for all the efforts that I have made to build up what I have."

America snorted. "What exactly do you expect that should mean to me? All that you have achieved is to be a little better at sailing and a lot better at bullying. As far as I am concerned, that's really the only trick there is to becoming an 'empire'." He knew that he was treading on dangerous territory with that kind of talk in present company, but his anger with having Spain mistreating a colony on his land in the middle of his Fair in the middle of his Conference had sparked his temper. "Why – I could just jump on a boat, find a patch of land, stick the Stars and Stripes in it and call myself an empire too, couldn't I?"

It might have been the lingering adrenaline from the earlier argument that caused the normally levelheaded Spain to snap. The older nation's face twisted with rage, a finger jabbing itself harshly against America's chest. "You arrogant bastard! Take your Conference and choke on it! I will not be disrespected by some spoilt little nation in the middle of nowhere that no one cares about and no one misses! Do not cross my path again, America, or you will regret it!"

Spain's hand slapped against his chest, palm flat as it shoved the taller man backwards. He did not wait around to watch America finish stumbling from the blow. The older nation marched off in the direction of the complex. America scowled after him, rubbing ruefully at his chest as he shouted after Spain's retreating figure. "I expect to see you gone tomorrow! I mean it!"

America glared at England once Spain had gone. "Are you going to blow up at me too?"

England was gazing in the direction where Spain had vanished. His thick eyebrows were practically laced together, so deep was his scowl. The man's green eyes swung up to America's as he said, darkly, "You really shouldn't have done that. Speaking from personal experience, Spain isn't a nation that you want to cross as you just did. It is going to cost you."

"Then it will cost me. And we'll fight. I am ready for whatever the world throws at me now." America informed him just as tersely.

With a shake of his head, England began to head off in the direction that Spain had gone. America watched him go a bit of distance, before calling after him in a warning, "England are you going to—"

"I'll respect your wishes while I am here." England told him rigidly. He pivoted, striding backwards as he scowled at where America remained standing. "But only while I am here, do you understand? If you even consider trying such a tactic on me in Europe then you had better be prepared for the consequences. You may rule this part of the world, America, but don't make the mistake of thinking that it matters beyond those borders. That will get you more trouble than you could ever wish to have." Reaching up, England politely lifted his hat from his head in parting, as if he hadn't just been giving the other man a veiled threat. "Goodnight."

* * *

_World Conference – 1898_

America whistled his national anthem to himself as he studied his reflection in the mirror, making some last minute adjustments to his tie. The climate in Finland wasn't as frigid as Russia's but it still made walking around in anything less than a suit and jacket a bad idea. It wasn't snowing, hadn't rained much, and despite the cold had been pleasant since he'd arrived. America could definitely pick out a few other locations for the Conference that had been less enjoyable.

His merry tune broke off as the door to his room opened. Canada came inside, his brother's hand clutching hard on the doorknob as he stared at America. Judging by the pale, half-afraid expression on his brother's face, America knew that something was up. "What's the matter, Canada? You look like someone just walked on your grave."

"Don't tell me that you haven't heard yet!" His brother breathed out in exasperation, voice trembling with some unknown emotion. "America, please tell me that you're aware of what's happening today!"

"Uh. Well." America reached up to rub his index finger along the underside of his nose. Was there something important that he was supposed to do today? No one had told him that he needed to give a presentation, and the agenda for the Conference was blessedly free of his name for any of the events. Clearly, though, Canada was bothered by whatever it was that America himself did not know about. "No. I guess I'm not. At least nothing that anyone has bothered to inform me about – why?"

"This is bad. This is very bad." Canada mumbled as his brother began to pace the room behind where America stood. "Of _course_ they wouldn't have told you. Of _course_! They must have known that you wouldn't have agreed to it. Honestly, America, you need to get in the habit of communicating more with your government officials."

America shrugged. "They tell me what they think I need to know. I try not to involve myself in every little nuance of running the country. Unlike you, I am not a micro-manager." He tilted his head curiously. "Does this have something to do with Spain? I mean, the war was really short – only four months. Are the others having some kind of issue with it?"

Canada shook his head quickly. He opened his mouth to respond when a movement at the door caught both their attentions.

England stood in the opened door. A hand was placed against the frame of it as he quickly drank in the situation with a glance of those perceptive emerald eyes. His mouth curved enigmatically at their corners. "Well, well. Judging by your brother's anxiety and your oblivious expression, I'd say that you haven't heard the good news."

"What news?" America scowled. He didn't like the fact that England looked smug. England looking smug never boded well. "What's going on? You both know something that I don't – why don't you just tell me?"

"Sorry, chap, but I'd hate to spoil the surprise." England murmured pleasantly. He beckoned the brothers along with his idle hand, his smirk increasing in strength. "If you gentlemen would be so kind as to follow me? These things can't be done without a little pomp and circumstance, I'm afraid. You'll have to forgive our European formalities."

As they left America's room, England led the way down the corridor. America's eyes began darting around the hall, as he grew incredibly nervous. What the hell was going on? He tried to decipher some clue from Canada's face as his brother walked beside him. All that America could get from him was the impression that Canada was waiting for all hell to break loose.

England was studying his face as the island empire stopped in front of a specific door. He twisted the knob without looking at it, pressing the door blindly open with a hand. Without taking his eyes off America's face, England motioned for the man to enter. "Go on, then. They're all waiting."

America really didn't want to go into the room. His instincts told him that if he did, he wouldn't like what he discovered. Still, he didn't want to seem cowardly either. America drew a deep breath into his lungs and nodded stiffly before walking inside.

His first impression was the fact that the room was full of Europeans. Several of the nations that he knew were gathered inside. The next thing that America took from the room was the fact that it was decorated up in celebration. America saw that there were tables lining the edges of the chamber, dressed in white cloth. A few flutes of champagne had been set out, alongside an assortment of foods. It appeared to be some sort of European buffet.

America was understandably confused. He blinked as France sauntered up to him, thrusting a glass of champagne into his hand. "_Bonjour_, America! So good of you to finally join us – we had just begun to think that you weren't going to attend this affair."

Holding the glass loosely in his grip, America stared at the elder nation. "I don't… What is this, France?"

"We are welcoming you into our special little club, of course." France clinked his glass against America's with a knowing wink. "Honestly, I am not surprised that you have finally made your aspirations known to the world – it is only astonishing to me that you did not do so sooner."

"Club? What club?" America's scowl was getting deeper and deeper with every second. He saw that England had come over to linger nearby. The elder nation took a glass up off the table, expression composed. "Britannia… This has gone on long enough. Tell me what the hell is going on!"

England smiled at him faintly as America turned towards being demanding. "It should be obvious, considering the company in this room. We nations all have – or have had – one particular thing in common. At some point in history, everyone here has been an empire with some number of colonies."

"Okay. What does that have to do with _me_, though?"

"Apparently you have yet to be introduced." England told him with a patience that didn't seem sincere. He gestured off to the side. "Spain. Are you being lax on your manners? You know how these things are supposed to go."

America's head turned, finding Spain coming up beside him. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the nation that he had just finished fighting against. America had not expected to see the other man again so soon. Spain was just as unhappy to be there in his company. He glared back at America, before taking a step to the side.

Behind him, America saw that there were some young children in ranging ages that had been standing in Spain's shadow. He couldn't fathom why such fledgling nations would be at the Conference, let alone in the company of these other seasoned countries. America peered at the children as Spain told him, curtly, "This is Puerto Rico, Guam and Philippines. They have been colonies of mine for a few years."

"That's… all well and good," America murmured, "but why are they here?"

"They're here because they're yours now." England spoke up from his other side. When America's widened eyes slowly swung his way, England smiled with amusement. He touched his glass delicately with America's. "Congratulations, America, on officially becoming an empire."

America blinked. "…What?"

* * *

America's room was full of silent tension. He sat on a chair on one side of the room. The three child colonies were seated together on the bed on the other. America stared at them just as lost as they stared back. None of them had even said a word since having returned to the lodgings.

Standing at the side of the room with his arms crossed, Canada looked back and forth at either side. The silence was getting to him. He decided to try and diffuse some of the tension. With a tentative smile, Canada spoke kindly to the children. "So… have you three been enjoying your time at the Conference so far?"

The girl – Puerto Rico – let her dark eyes drift to Canada. The two boys didn't even look away from peering at America across from them. Puerto Rico silently shook her head in answer. Canada's mouth twitched at the lack of a verbal response. "I… ah… see. I was a colony here up until a few decades ago myself, so I understand how boring this event can seem without having anything to do."

Seeing that he wasn't getting any results, Canada shot a desperate, pleading look at his brother. America let out a short puff of breath. His sibling's concern was nagging at him. He needed to do something. Fidgeting with the bottom hem of his jacket, America studied each child one at a time.

Puerto Rico appeared to be the eldest, along with being the only female. Her hair was long and glossy, curling over the shoulders of the white dress that she wore. There were some faded flowers laced in the tresses of the girl's hair; exotic like the location where she had come from. There was a doe-eyed quality to her eyes as they moved from Canada to America.

Guam was not as openly distressed as the others. He appeared more interested in America than anything, but was restraining himself from speaking without the solidarity of his fellow colonies. The boy was the smallest among them, though his lack of height was made up for in the roundness of his middle. He was round in the limbs, flesh spiced with color, his clothes vaguely tropical in design.

Lastly came Philippines. America had not even seen the boy's eyes yet. The child refused to look up from the bed or his lap. His features also had an exotic flair to them, though America couldn't quite place what nation the boy reminded him of the most. Just like the other two, his skin appeared to have been kissed by the sun.

To put it plainly, America knew that he was nothing at all like them, or vice versa. He wasn't even sure if they could speak his language. Considering that his Spanish was pretty much non-existent, it was going to be a challenge to communicate with them if they could not understand him. Still, it was important that he try it anyway. "I… well…"

He sighed. Whether they could understand him or not, there was plenty to get off his chest, even if clearing the air only benefited him. "I am as uncertain of how to handle this as you three. I've never had colonies before and I haven't the faintest idea of what I am supposed to do here. This came as a complete surprise to me – I never expected that I would ever have anything beyond my states. All of the other nations who have colonies are probably off laughing right now as they imagine how badly I am going to do with handling this."

America smiled wryly at them, trying to be as encouraging as possible. "I doubt that I will be very good at this, though I promise that I will work very hard not to mess things up. No matter what happens, I just wanted you three to know that I will do my best to do what I can to make sure that you are safe, comfortable and happy. Okay?"

The three colonies exchanged glances. Puerto Rico's lips thinned as the girl returned her gaze to America. He wondered if they had caught any of that. Then, abruptly, the girl spoke. "The food at that party was terrible. Are we going to get to have lunch soon?"

Astonished that the girl responded in perfect English, America's dazed face blinked blearily at Canada. His brother shrugged, gave a little smile, and then stepped in on his behalf. "I'm sure that I could gather enough things to make something. Let's go raid the kitchens."

* * *

_World Conference – 1900_

England cornered Canada as soon as the younger nation stepped foot on his soil. Being so far removed from the direct nation of his interest, Canada had become regarded as the best source for information with matters involving his southern neighbor. England let an arm curve around his former colony's shoulders, ignorant of Canada's automatic unease. "Ah. Good afternoon, Bri-Britannia."

"Good afternoon to you as well, Canada." England told him kindly. "Thank you for making the trip over. I hope that your voyage was pleasant?"

"I wouldn't call it that." Canada murmured darkly in response, a shadow of repressed anger shadowing his delicate features. His eyes twisted in a sullen glance to the ship behind them. "The sailing was smooth; the company was insufferable."

"Oh? Are your brother's colonies that misbehaved?" A smirk had spawned on the empire's face. It was obvious that England didn't hold much faith in the success of America maintaining his outlying colonies. In fact, he actually had money riding on it amongst some of the other nations – a betting pool that America had discovered at the previous year's Conference which had prompted him to storm out in a tizzy, thereby cutting off his international ties for yet another year.

Canada shook his head wearily. "It's not them. The colonies are great, really. It's… it's _him_." The young man's jaw tightened as his anger threatened to bubble over. "He has become such a… such a…" Canada trailed off. "Well. You'll see for yourself. Don't say that I didn't warn you."

Shrugging England's arm off his shoulders, the young man began to walk off by himself down the pier with determined strides. If America's behavior was enough to put Canada in a foul mood, then there was plenty to be worried about. England had just begun spinning towards the ship once Canada had departed when America's voice blasted loud over the harbor. "Hey, guys, look! If it isn't dapper, old Arthur – in the flesh."

There was some certain arrogance to the man's voice that already had England bristling. He forced a polite smile anyway as the island empire saw America coming down the ramp from the ship with the trio of colonies trailing after him. "Ah. It's good to see you as well, Mister Jones."

"Please! There's no need to be so formal. We're old friends after all, aren't we?" America's hand stretched out and took hold of England's, pumping it up and down in a handshake.

England flinched as a few sudden bursts of flashing lights blinded him all at once. He was bewildered by the fact that America had shimmied up at his side, the younger nation's face lit up by a gleaming smile that exuded charm. When some of the spots had faded from England's eyes, he furrowed his eyebrows at the entourage that had clustered up at the base of the ramp. "…What's all this? Who are these people and why-" He winced as another flashbulb went off in his face. "Why are they taking photographs of me?"

"They aren't taking photographs of you, per se. They're taking photographs of _me_." America explained to him through his teeth, considering how his smile had not faded during the last few minutes. He relaxed when the photographers were occupied changing their broad panels of film, touching at the corners of his mouth as if to limber up the muscles. "See, having the connections that I do, I've been on the forefront of the development of the moving pictures technology that Edison was working on these last few years. You can imagine, with the success of the budding industry, how well it's been going. I produced a few moving pictures that I starred in – and now I am something of a celebrity back home."

America winked and held that expression as a photographer snapped another shot. "These guys are here to chronicle my trip to London. We're going to scout out some locations that might make it into our next picture. I thought that I'd turn one of the old stories about King Arthur into a moving picture – what do you think about that idea?"

His suggestion made England flush, brightening as the island nation turned pleased. "Well, I… That's very flattering. Though I haven't the faintest notion what to do in a moving picture – is it very difficult?"

"Hm? Oh!" America's brief confusion with England's remarks gave way to a bark of laughter. "Sorry, but… it would be an American production. Meaning that I'd be starring in it? Though I might let you have a small bit as an extra or something." He did not even give England enough time to become completely crestfallen. America had plucked a small paper card out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He tucked it into England's with a practiced motion, tapping the tiny square into place. "Hey, keep in touch though, okay?"

America moved away from England's side as he lifted the volume of his voice to address the crowd, hands clapping together. "All right, everyone! Let's get right down to business. There's this great big tower thing here that I think would be perfect! We can get some shots of it and then head downtown for some lunch."

The entourage of Americans followed him in a loose cluster as the entire mass headed further down the pier towards the streets beyond. England stared after that assembly with a slackened jaw. It was only when one of America's colonies coughed that he realized they were still there and were witnessing him standing there like an open-mouthed fool. He placed a hand on his hip under the open tweed of his coat, regarding the three children with a cant to his head. "Who was that?"

"America, of course." Puerto Rico told him politely. The girl glanced at the two boys traveling with her, then began to trek along in the direction that America and his people were wandering.

"Are you entirely positive of that?" England called after her. "You didn't take your eyes off him for very long, did you? There's no chance that he might be an imposter?"

Guam stopped on the way by England, patting him understandingly on the arm. "It's okay, Mister Eyebrows. America told us that you are very much stressed out all the time – but, really? Why would anyone want to impersonate America?" The boy chortled in amusement as he followed Puerto Rico.

England's scowl was growing more and more fierce. He glared dully down as Philippines paused beside him. The boy peered passively up at the island empire. Then, quietly, he chirped, "Eyebrows." Philippines went bounding after the others quickly after that, leaving the flustered nation standing alone on the docks.

* * *

"How long as he been this way?" England asked wearily. He sat with Canada at the table, cradling his head in the palm of his hand as they tried their best to blend in with their surroundings. Both nations wanted to avoid drawing America's attention. They watched as America spoke animatedly to the cluster of people around him, his voice loud and boisterous and brimming with self-importance.

"A few months now." Canada answered with a sigh. He tapped the edge of his spoon against the rim of his teacup, shaking off droplets that clung to the silver when Canada added another lump of sugar. "He was perfectly normal before then. I don't know where this behavior came from. All that I can say for certain is that I hope it passes quickly."

England nodded his support. "As do I. Because as energetic as he has always been, and as lively, this new America seems like such a… such a…"

"Buffoon? Idiot? Nuisance? Pest?" Canada supplied in a list of suggestions.

"All of the above."

Canada's mouth twisted as he watched his brother's arms swing out in unrestrained, wild gestures. "Well. It's probably just a phase of his. I'm sure that he'll be back to his old self in no time."

* * *

**A/N: **Instead of the Age of Aquarius, would this be concerned the Age of Idiocy?

**The Chicago World's Fair **was an international fair held in America towards the end of the century. It was to mark the anniversary of when Columbus discovered the New World. The Fair officially was begun in 1892, but was not opened to the public until 1893. This was a wonder of inventions all together in one place - electric grids, incandescent lights, and of course the debut of the Ferris Wheel. Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show was a traveling troupe that portrayed life in the Wild West. They had not been allowed to be part of the World's Fair, but they did set up their show right next to it and ended up raking in tons of money as a result. The Chicago World's Fair was said to be the largest one that had happened to date; it even eclipsed The Great Exhibition that had taken place in London during the 1850s.

**Spanish-American War**. This was an incredibly short-lived war. It only lasted about four months, so the tensions building up to it had been increasing for years. America more or less dominated the Spanish, liberating the colonies on this side of the world - and laying ruin to the Spanish Empire in the meantime. Spain signed over Puerto Rico, Guam and the Philippines to the United States.

**Moving Pictures.** These were the fledgling technology that would one day develop into the major motion pictures of today's cinematic world.

And so the era of the American Idiot begins. Poor world.

**Also: **For those following this story and _From the Ashes_: I have some story concepts posted on the bottom of my profile page of the next project I want to start on once _FtA_ is complete. Because I am indecisive, I even created a poll for everyone to vote on. If one of those four options sounds appealing, just mark it - and I shall endeavor to commit to whatever idea seems the most popular as my next fiction piece. (Aren't I nice? Wee!) Please help me decide where to go next! 3


	9. Chapter 9

Well, hello there. This update should have come much sooner. It's funny how life and all of its interruptions tend to get in the way of my creative outlets. I do hope that everyone enjoys this installment after such a long wait. I am just happy that I finally had time to sit and work through all the re-writes.

Warnings for this chapter: A FrUK encounter that's not too juicy, and some mild American angst. I think the American Idiot might be catching on when it comes to getting what he wants before it's gone.

Please enjoy!

* * *

_1903_

"Britannia! Britannia – hey!"

England's shoulders hitched up noticeably at the pitch of his voice, though America could not for the life of him figure out why. The island nation turned away from the Dutch attendants that were getting them settled in for this year's Conference to fix America with a mild frown. "America? I'm in the middle of—"

With exuberant force, America's arm took hold of the other man's as he grinned widely. England fired an apologetic glance to the attendants as he was hauled away from them by America's tug. This was probably going to get him a lecture on rudely interrupting other people's conversations again but right now the young man was too caught up in his excitement. He had big news from home, and had tried to seek out his brother, but Canada had once again managed to pull a vanishing act on him again. England's dour face was the first he'd encountered.

America wasn't about to admit that he might have sought the island nation out specifically. That would have made him uncomfortable to consider the implications. "Guess what? No, no – don't say anything, I was just being 'rhetorical' or whatnot. We finally did it!"

Stumbling along with that strong grip on his arm, England was bristling from the public manhandling that he was receiving. It was a testament to his growing tolerance for the other nation that he hadn't already lashed out violently to free himself. After all, that was England's default reaction whenever France tried it. "Did what? America, this is most unseemly. You might have just told me whatever 'grand new thing' you had to share during the meeting."

"I couldn't wait that long." America protested, an unmistakeable whine cut through in his voice. He did finally release the other man, twisting to face England with another flashbulb-ready grin. "So, you remember when I mentioned that a few of my boys were working on a new way to fly?"

"No." England shook his head. The island empire was bluntly honest. "You talk so much, about so many nonsensical things, that I tend to give up listening after the initial greeting phase."

Ignoring those words since they didn't fit into the pre-determined script in America's mind, the younger nation continued on. "Well, they did it! The Wright brothers finally managed to get their invention up into the skies. They _flew_! Can you believe it?" America's eyes were lit up brightly, radiant with the excitement that was coursing through his body. He peered closely at England while waiting for it to infect the other man.

"Actually, no, I don't." England huffed instead, hands settling on his hips once he had put his clothes back in order from America dragging him along. He fixed a green-eyed glare upwards. "There's only so much of your exaggerated braggery that one can stomach before your outlandish claims become unimpressive, America. If your people managed to hop some piece of constructed junk from one spot to another, that doesn't constitute 'flight'. And I wouldn't recommend that you go blathering about it to the rest of Europe unless you're keen on getting laughed at. We're too old for tales."

Straightening his hat out, England pivoted away from America to head down the corridor from where he'd been dragged, voice carrying over his shoulder. "We'll believe it when we _see_ it. Until then, kindly spare this meeting yet _another_ of your tall tales."

* * *

"Don't hold it against him for doubting you, America." Canada told him patiently where they were seated together for dinner that evening once the Conference had ended session. "He has so much going on for him right now that he's probably just worn out."

America wasn't entirely appeased by this explanation. He stabbed his fork repeatedly into the piece of meat on his plate. No one had told him what it was, and America had learnt a few Conferences ago that there was a danger in consuming foreign cuisine without first knowing what he was about to eat. "You know that I make it a point not to pay attention to what they're up to over here. Is Britannia in another war or something?"

Canada smiled wryly. His brother had often complained of England's 'warmongering'. "Not quite. I mean, Britannia is always involved in _some_ kind of conflict. Rather hard to avoid it when he's spread so far and has so much power that he can't prevent someone feeling cross. But Britannia has been busy with other things too. He just made an alliance with Japan recently."

Dropping his fork so that it clattered on his plate, America gaped at his sibling in shock. "You mean that bastard actually made an _ally_? He didn't just invade and force Japan to back his endeavors like usual?"

"No, America." Canada gave him a pointed look of warning. While he knew that England had numerous faults, he didn't approve of when America made it a point to start listing them in conversation. "It's a mutual benefit for both of them. They're _friends_."

This left America sitting mutely in even deeper confusion. His brain couldn't quite wrap around the concept of 'England' and 'friend' in the same sentence. Recovering from it, he picked up his glass and let out an explosive, obnoxious laugh that carried. "That's ridiculous! Why would those two have any reason to become friends?"

Canada had winced from that laughter as it drew attention to their table. He shrank down into his shoulders, ducking his head in embarrassment. "They have plenty of things in common, actually. They both enjoy gardens. And tea, quiet, books. It's true that their cultures are different - Eastern and Western generally is - but they're both intellectuals enough to appreciate the unique nature of those differences. Plus, the two of them are also islands. Islands are pretty isolated, you know? It's good for them when they stick together."

"I guess." America glowered down at his plate. He felt inexplicably unhappy with the idea of England's friendship with Japan. It was probably just discomfort with the idea of his neighbors on the other side of the Pacific _and_ the Atlantic were building a budding friendship.

"Though there might be another major war brewing." Canada stated, drawing America's attention back to him. "Russia and Japan have been leaning towards a fight. And since Britannia has become an ally to Japan, and France is an ally to Russia, everyone figures that those two won't miss an opportunity to beat each other up. Considering how much those two hate each other it wouldn't surprise me."

America looked out across the dining area. He sought out the nation that they were discussing to find that England and Japan had secured a small booth for themselves remote from the others. Deeply absorbed in their conversation, the two nations might very well have been alone in this big space. Japan was making languid gestures, reserved in whatever tale he was telling or point he was trying to impress. England nodded along with his gaze entirely fixed upon his dining companion.

Then England's face abruptly lit up as he laughed. It was something America had not witnessed in some time. And when the other man's expression settled into a rare warm smile, America's heart felt a strange twist in response. Because once upon a time that smile had only belonged to _him._ He scooped his napkin from his lap and tossed it upon an unfinished plate.

"This is pretty boring. I'm going to go see if I can get some people together for a few rounds of poker. If I'm lucky I might even be able to get Australia to give me one of his animals again. You coming along?"

"I'll catch up." Canada said lightly, waving his brother off. He gestured to the plate of food that he couldn't let go to waste out of consideration to their host. As America swaggered off to loudly taunt a few of the other nations into his card games, Canada watched him go. Ever perceptive, his eyes shifted from his sibling to where England was telling some animated story to Japan across the room. His lips pursed into a thin line. Then Canada sighed deeply, shaking his head as he returned to finishing his plate. "Two stubborn fools."

* * *

_1904_

America was certain that he'd misheard. He stared at Canada like his brother had sprouted an extra limb. "They did what?"

"I really wish you would pay a _little_ attention to world affairs, America." Canada sat back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. "It's even been in your papers. _L'Entente Cordiale_. The 'Cordial Agreement'. Britannia and France both decided that it was in their best interests to stop declaring war on each other. And with the conflict still growing between Russia and Japan, this prevents either of them from having to get involved. It's really an overdue arrangement."

"So that means they're friends now?" It felt as if he were asking an impossible question.

"Of course not." Canada laughed, long and loud. "Do you honestly think that those two could ever be nice to each other? They're as hateful towards one another as ever. Just not so much that they will jump into war like they used to. It's actually a relief to me."

"A relief? Why?"

"I still remember what it was like to belong to France. My loyalty to Britannia is strong and always will be - but I can't strike against my prior keeper either." Canada's head shook as firmly as his voice held conviction. "He is still dear to me. Now I am no longer stuck in the middle of their conflicts."

"Be that as it may," America countered with a wry smile, "it's _still_ Britannia and France. I can't believe that those two would ever stop tearing into one another long enough to build a friendship." He tossed in one of his more obnoxious laughs to chase away an emerging feeling of unease.

"Believe what you want to." Canada spoke again. He got up, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn. The hour was getting late and they still had more meetings to face in the morning. America tuned in to the fact that he was keeping his sibling from bed.

"I'll let you get to sleep. Be sure to lock your door tonight. You might be fond of him, but France was clearly prowling around tonight for _something._"

They parted with a few more words. America began the walk back to his own quarters, taking his time with a leisurely stroll. It gave him time to think about what Canada had told him. The more he thought about it the more America realized that he didn't like the idea.

In fact, the idea was bothering him considerably. England making friends with Japan was a concept that America was still adjusting to. He wasn't pleased to know that that particular empire really was succeeding in branching out into new alliances. Not when America was still only on polite yet distant footing with England. It nagged at him to think that despite the efforts made to repair their damaged relations, America still had not managed to slip back into that old, close interaction with the elder nation.

Now England had made an alliance with France. The British Empire was finally managing to expand its social circle. America had preferred the days when England, like himself, had opted to live in isolation. For reasons that he didn't dare try to identify, it made America feel all the more special to think that his occasional invasions into the solitude of the island nation were exceptions to the norm.

America was just rounding the corner to turn down the next hall when there was a thunderous explosion of noise from further down the way. He recognized the figures of England and France, as if his thoughts had managed to summon them there somehow. Knowing it was unwise to stand in the open when they were rampaging against each other, America lurched back just out of sight around the corner. When he peeked around again it was just in time for him to duck away when one of the decorative vases that lined Italy's hallway went crashing into the wall behind him.

He decided it was probably better to wait it out behind the safety of cover. And with England's temper, even hiding behind shields could never be entirely counted upon for survival. America cocked his ear to listen to the series of crashes and interchange of words between the warring pair.

"How many times must I tell you to piss off?" England raged. Some other unfortunate piece of furniture was sacrificed. "I'm under no obligation to honor your 'special terms' on foreign soil. Go find someone else to bother."

France's accent was thicker with irritation. "That's too much work. I see no reason for you to get stingy _now._ We've been enjoying our arrangement together for weeks now. Why are you being defiant about it here? Neither Italy is going to object."

"I'm not worried about those gits! I simply don't feel like entertaining you while we're here. Go stick it in a fire for all that I care. Would serve you right to cool down your libido." England's volume had dropped. He sounded strained. America wondered if they had gotten one another into headlock's yet.

The dialogue wasn't too different from what America usually heard. Something about their voices just didn't sound quite right. England's tension and France's anticipation were clear in their tones. Their fight had become less violent if the lack of crashing furniture was any indication. Though America thought he detected the sound of rustling fabric when their argument went temporarily silent.

Then-

"Argh! You bit me!"

"Of course I bloody well bit you. And I'll do it again if you don't get your sodding hands off me! So just-hnn!"

That had not sounded pained. America leaned again towards the corridor to look out again and see if the pair of them were distracted enough for him to make an escape. His eyes widened. They were certainly absorbed on other things. Just not something America had expected.

France had managed to catch England in his clutches. He currently had the island nation sandwiched against the wall, and from America's distance it looked like France had declared war upon the territory of England's throat. There was an expression of pleasure/pain that had driven England's face taut, flushed red with familiar anger and probably other similarly heated reaction. The small submission of a groan from his former caretaker sounded too loud to America's ears. Something was twisting up inside of him from witnessing this indiscretion; he could try to pretend that it came from a concern that England might be suffering from some unwanted attention, yet America knew that the empire of Britannia was not weak enough to be forced into anything.

Suddenly, France cursed loudly. England's fist had driven in against the Frenchman's ribs hard enough to wind him. France shuffled back a few steps to clutch at his middle, wincing at the mistreatment at the hands of his rival. "_M-merde_! What was that for?"

"I'm not going to be manhandled by you in the middle of some dodgy Italian corridor." England informed him with a growl in his voice. He scrubbed at his throat with a palm, hurriedly tugging his garments back into pristine order.

America felt an immediate slice of satisfaction course through him. He knew that he was smirking at the rejection that France was undergoing right this moment. Below that selfish wave of smug feeling, America prodded internally at the relief that he felt with this result. The discussion with Canada returned to the forefront of his mind. While there might have been some state of peace between England and France emerging in this new century, it was impossible to think that the pair would ever truly cross the line of rivalry.

The sound of a locked being turned drew America's attention back. England had turned his back on France while the other elder nation recovered his air supply. The Englishman shoved the door open, lights from inside casting a pale glow over the pair. America's grin drained away as he listened to the man's next words to the pathetically folded Frenchman. "Just hurry the hell inside if we're doing this. And kindly tell your goddamned boss that if he sends me one more letter inquiring about our 'sexual happiness', I'm shipping him your left eye in reply."

"Ohhh, such dirty talk. You certainly know how to woo, Britannia_._ Is that from one of your sappy love sonnets?" France had recovered enough to coo these taunting words back at England. He didn't hesitate to take the invitation into the Englishman's quarters. America watched him disappear into England's door. Then a hand reached out to catch the island nation by the arm to drag him within when England stood hesitating just in the threshold. The door slammed shut behind them, closing off the light and presence of both men.

* * *

America spent the next hour walking around the area of his Italian host's complex. He knew that we wasn't being very responsible by doing so. The responsible action would have been to retreat to his bed with an early meeting ahead of him; to sleep like his brother nation had done so that his mind would be sharp when dealing with the games of Europe. Though America knew how to deal with them now. A few loud laughs and some boasting statements tended to confuse the Old World custodians. So long as he left them confused or bothered, America knew that he could keep them on their toes.

His mind wasn't upon the broad base of Europe right now. It was annoyingly fixated upon one particular one (two, if he counted France into the equation - but America was cheerfully forgetting that man's existence). He doubted that he could have fallen asleep when his thoughts were in such a flutter. Once again America's mind was being haunted by the spectre of one face, one man, one nation not his own.

Eventually America found himself coming upon a familiar spot. An old well of aged stones, nestled amongst greenery. The plants around it were all new; life changing around timeless rock, and that profound thought left America feeling a sudden kinship with the thing. He remembered it from a time long ago when he had come seeking refuge behind the shield of these stones. This time he wasn't stumbling in panic, feeling ill over the knowledge of a Devil's Deal and the bitter aftertaste of wine that America still couldn't stomach.

"Goodness me." That voice caused America to tense. "Judging by the brooding expression I spy upon your face, it seems you're still capable of deep thought after all."

America's head reluctantly turned to better face England. The island nation had manifested from the shadows of his thoughts, wrapped tight beneath layers of bedclothes and a thick red dressing gown. England did not seem to catch on to the fact that America was willing the other man to leave; even though the younger nation felt like the air was heavy with tension. Instead, the Englishman fit his smaller form against the side of the well in an echo of time long past, striking a match to light the fragrant rolled cigarette pinched in slim fingers.

"What are you doing out here?" America demanded when his silence stretched on too long. He waved the fresh cloud of smoke out of his face. Despite his resolve to keep up his latest, most comfortable mask of an idiot's nonchalance, he could hear the harsh edge of his tone. "I hate it when you do this. Why do you always turn up when I don't want to see you?"

"Oh?" England puffed again as an eyebrow lofted quizzically. "I hadn't known you were cross with me. As to the matter of my turning up when you're upset, well..." Trailing off, England's eyes lifted to ponder the moon overhead. "We could chalk it up to some lingering 'paternal instinct', but I'm not sure if that might get me punched in the face knowing you and your tantrums." The Englishman smirked before moving to turn away.

America blinked sharply as the island nation moved to depart. "Where are you going?"

"You made it perfectly clear that I am unwelcome here, America." England pointed out with an accompanying roll of his eyes. "Though that would normally motivate me to remain rooted in place just to irk someone further, I'm too tired for a row this evening."

Going into motion, America closed in upon the other man. He caught hold of England's arm to prevent him from leaving. England twisted back to him with a scowl, mouth opening to give the younger nation a scolding for handling him thus, yet America's question stopped them short. "Do you love him?"

England's instinctive anger transformed to confusion. "What?"

"I asked if you loved him." America repeated. He captured hold of England's other shoulder to force the shorter man to face him directly. "France, I mean. I saw the two of you tonight in the corridor."

"You did?" England's eyes widened with this knowledge. Then he averted his gaze, a flood of red hues filling across the Englishman's cheeks, unable to look at America in his embarrassment. "I hadn't known anyone was there to see it. America, it-"

America tightened his grip. He had hoped, even knowing the truth, that England might try to deny it. "Just answer my question. _Do you love him_?"

Dropping that cigarette down, England's hands flashed upward. He knocked America's grip use with his own strength, flushed now with anger. "Of course I don't! Why would you ask me such a stupid question? I don't even consider myself _friends_ with France. The ink on our alliance hasn't even been dry for a year yet. Love him? I'd _still_ stab him in the throat if he riled me enough."

"Then why?" America rubbed at the inside of his wrist. It was stinging from where England's blows had struck. He peered hard at England through the lenses of his glasses. "Why do that with him? Why take France into your bed if you hate him still?"

England ground out his cigarette with the heel of his slipper. He must have grounded some of his anger out too by doing so, because when he looked back at America the Englishman's temper was tamer. "That's a rather personal question, don't you think? It's none of your business why or whom I decide to take into my bed, America. I will let your insulting behavior thus far slide - but don't think my patience is infinite."

"I just don't understand it." America responded, shaking his head as he tried a more tactile approach. "Why France? There must be other people that could fill that place for you other than him."

The island nation stared at him in silence. Then a heavy sigh erupted out of England, arms crossing over his chest as the man turned away from America. "It's not so simple for me. An empire has many conquests and few friends. And even those I can claim as friends I will not pretend we do not have mutual interests in mind with that selective companionship. France isn't anywhere close to my ideal match; but he is close, willing to explore our new allegiance and - though it pains me to say this - skilled as a lover. He is a satisfactory substitute."

"A substitute? A substitute for what?"

England's shrug was subtle. "Something more genuine. My better match. He fills the void in a bed that has been empty for too long and makes the dreary, silent nights pass a little more easily. Though this isn't a commitment between us. France is not bound to me in any way except as an ally. He is free to and does often fill the space in other nation's beds. The _only_ thing that I could desire from him is an occasional evening of intimacy that doesn't involve either of us losing blood."

"You deserve better." America stated quietly. "I know that most of the time we're at each other's throats, and certainly don't have the right to say so... but I feel that you deserve to be happy. Or whatever you stodgy English have as an equivalent."

The island nation gave him a dark look. "We're not incapable of human emotions, you know. It's just undignified to be overcome with such things in public." England huffed in exasperation. He softened up enough from being offended to speak again more softly. "Cheers, America. That's touching to hear you say. And while it might not mean anything coming from me, I also wish you happiness. I'm sure that even an idiot such as yourself will be one day capable of finding it."

America was strongly tempted to plant a kiss between those furrowed eyebrows. Instead, he grinned. It was easier to snap into that mode than to dwell any longer on these more volatile, unsettling feelings. "Ha! Are you kidding me? We _manufacture_ happiness in the United States. Maybe I'll even sell you some one of these days - for a discount."

That shift in manner caused a shadow to cloud England's face. He shook his head, deciding that the conversation was better left to drop right there. "Right. Goodnight, America. You might hurry off to sleep if you want to be up in time to claim a good seat." England lifted a hand in a parting motion and headed back for the door to return inside.

America brought his hand up as well, fingers clutching at the air just short of contact with the Englishman. The island nation had not noticed the aborted gesture. Letting him go, America stood staring at the empty space where England had just been standing. He then spent another minute looking thoughtfully at his hand as he tried to figure out what had motivated him to reach for England and why it left him feeling so disappointed in himself for not following through.

* * *

_1908_

England stepped free of a cluster of nations, curling his fingers around Canada's arm to pull his former colony to his side so that they could speak quietly together. "Do you have any idea what's going on here today?"

Canada shook his head as he looked out over the crowd. The Conference had been surprised to find that their late lunch break would be hosted outside. While France was fortunate enough to have beautiful weather at this time of year, it was unlike him to gather them all somewhere that couldn't be kept guarded and immaculate. Canada knew that England was just as confused by the informality of it all. "France hasn't told me anything, if that's what you're wanting to know. I'm just as in the dark as you about all of this."

Grumbling, uncomfortable with the idea of his neighboring rival springing surprises on him, England stopped one of the footmen that were milling through the nations with their uplifted trays of champagne flutes. Canada watched the elder nation down the glass in his hand, then a second from the tray, before curling a third close to his chest. "I hate being in the dark about things. France has been sporting that smug, secret smile of his at me all day. The one that indicates he knows something that I don't and is thrilled not to tell me."

"I'm sure that it's nothing bad." Canada reassured him. He lifted a hand to pat gingerly at England's back to soothe more of that discomfort away. "The worst that he could do is make some sort of proposal to you for international matrimony or something." When England made an alarming choking noise, he added hurriedly, "I doubt that's it. And America has been just as avoidant today. It makes me wonder if they're in league together."

"That's a frightening thought." England drawled.

He had begun to settle into a full blown sulk when France came upon them, wedging his way between the two men to sling an arm around each. "What are we discussing over here? You two aren't conspiring in the middle of my party, _oui_?"

"Like you're one to talk." England chided him while he elbowed the Frenchman in the ribs to get free of the man's arm. "I know you well enough to suspect when you are up to something. Have you dragged America into some grand scheme as well?"

"You wound me, Britannia." France said, pouting as he rubbed ruefully at his side. "To suspect me of wickedness when I have gone to such trouble to make this outdoor soiree such a success. Are you not enjoying yourselves?"

Sensing that this could dissolve quickly into an argument, Canada spoke up from beside them. He had made no effort yet to shake off the Frenchman's arm, used to that easy affection enough that it didn't bother him. "It's a lovely party, France. I am just concerned that America might have got his head wrapped around some 'ingenius' plan and Britannia thinks that you have something up your sleeve."

"Britannia might be right." France grinned sharply. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes. "America _did_ approach me before this Conference to address something that he wanted to bring to the attention of the delegates here- Ah! And it seems that the time has come. _Pardonnez-moi, mes amis_."

France stepped away from the two of them. He went to the center of the gathering space, stepping up onto a small platform there. The Frenchman raised his hands up to clap loudly to summon everyone's notice. "Attention. Attention, _s'il vous plaît_. Ladies and gentlemen, my esteemed colleagues. I hope that you are all enjoying the festivities provided here for you this late afternoon. Please make sure to help yourselves to the refreshments."

"Some of you have been wondering why it was decided that I should hold this gathering outside in the open air of my lovely garden. For the explanation, I must give the spotlight over to America. He has a demonstration for us today that I believe everyone will find to be most exhilirating." Ever the showman, France made a broad sweeping gesture of his arm before directing their attention upward. Canada felt England jolt beside him, hearing an intake of the other man's breath. He glanced at England's face, then followed the man's gaze up to the nearby roof of France's home. It caused Canada to gasp as well.

America stood up on the edge of the roof. He waved both arms at the assembly gathered below, voice carrying down to them at a shout. "Hello, World Conference! Thank you all for making it out on this monumental day! For those of you who have been wondering about the change of scenery, I won't hold you in suspense any longer." America twisted around briefly to survey the area around him, then turned back to the crowd of nations with a grin. "And now, just so that you all can be the first to see it, I bring to you - direct from the United States of America - our most astounding invention to date! Gentlemen and ladies, I give you... the Wright Brothers' Magnificent Flying Machine!"

His arm swept up broadly, extended out in a flourish of presentation. The nations on the ground exchanged a few glances when nothing happened. England arched an eyebrow as the murmurs of the others increased in volume around him. His voice was low as he drawled to Canada, "Did the idiot forget to bring it with him today? That really wouldn't come as any surprise to me."

"No," Canada answered him quickly, "I think it just takes some time for it to-ah, I hear it now."

Sure enough, there was a low buzz that reached their ears. It swelled in volume over the sound of their mingling voices, and everyone finally looked back up to where America stood on the roof. America pivoted around, fingers splaying out as he made some greeting signal to whatever was approaching. Seconds after that, just as promised, that flying contraption went soaring into view as it puttered across the open area where the nations stood.

There were many gasps from the assembly. More than a few hands pointed into the air to track its progress as it went flying over them. America watched on, face radiant with glee, and nearly went pitching forward off the roof in his excitement. He had managed to get his stance back in a secure position by the time the contraption came swooping back over them for yet another pass. His face tilted up to the sky to watch it, feeling as if it were close enough to touch, and stretched his fingers out towards the symbol of his flag that was painted upon the underbelly with a great measure of pride.

When the plane finished its last pass, he placed his hands upon his hips. America smiled smugly down at the excited faces of the nations below. "Back in 1903, you guys didn't want to believe me. And now there's no denying it: America has started the journey to conquering the skies."

* * *

_1912_

America had been unable to find England during the Conference. He'd been informed that the empire was present, yet the recent events had caused the island nation to bow out of attending the usual volatile atmosphere of the formal meetings. It had caught America off guard when he had seen Scotland occupying that same seat as a substitute; and that particular nation never made America feel welcomed to speak to him. It was only through asking others that America was able to locate England at all.

He managed to finally come across the other man when he stepped into the dining area. He had known that this was the usual time where other nations engaged in their daily ritual of tea taking. But America found that the Englishman was without company. There was a tea service out, and an empty teacup across from England hinted that he'd not been alone for very long.

Without waiting for an invitation or even for the island nation to look up from his brooding, America swung down into that recently vacated chair. He forced a small smile when England finally looked up to take notice of him. "Hello there. You've been a hard person to track down these last few days. I figured that you might want to hear from me directly about news from New York."

"Ah. Yes." England's solemn scowl smoothed away as he drew himself back upright. He tugged his suit jacket further around him as a small shiver traveled through the Englishman's figure. "I had intended to contact you sooner. There's just been so much going on since we received the news that she'd sunk that it must have slipped my mind. Do excuse my absentmindedness, America."

America stared at the untouched teacup beside him. "It seems to me that with all the reported mistakes that were made, the entire tragedy could have been avoided."

"That appears to be the general consensus on the matter." England answered, eyes distant and his manner subdued. He did not seem to be taking the news of the event all that well. "Southampton is in an uproar. We lost so many from there. And that's not even touching upon the Irish, Scots and Welsh that were aboard. My brothers keep hounding me for any news but I have nothing else to give them that isn't bad."

"Everyone is in shock. Considering how often it was said that the ship was unsinkable, people started to believe it couldn't happen. What a harsh way to learn otherwise." America murmured as he looked away from the teacup and up at England. The melancholy on the older man's face was making him uncomfortable. He could recall having seen it in his childhood on rare occasions when England's demeanor was not cheerful. "Is there something else on your mind?"

England did not seem to hear him. Then he shrugged, emerging abruptly out of his reticence. "It's a harsh way to learn, as you said. Something built out of iron, considered unsinkable, and yet it can still fail to protect those within its embrace. The loss of the Titanic is, if anything, a reminder to me that nothing is above disaster. Not ships. Not empires." The Englishman's eyes lifted, darkly green as they finally focused enough to really see America there beside him. "I must be feeling my age. Such dark, fatalistic thoughts in my head as of late. Perhaps it is the melancholy of my people affecting me?"

Hearing this, America's gaze wandered down from that too intense stare. He didn't know what to say in response. It wasn't often that someone managed to render him speechless. His focus strengthened on the silver tea set between them while taking time to absorb England's words. Then he wordlessly went into motion, grumbling as he put the used teacup aside and took a clean one from the tray. His eyes darted up to find England watching him curiously, the Englishman's expression one of confusion as America continued his motions.

Out of practice with the ritual, the American caused the entire tray to rattle when he replaced the pot in its central position and dragged the saucer closer to him. His lip fought to curl up in distaste; this particular beverage still made his stomach knot up for reasons that he assumed were entirely in his mind. America swallowed thickly to push the sensation down and caught England's eye across the table. "I don't know what to tell you. All I know is that I hate seeing that look on your face. Enough that I am prepared to let you get a chuckle out of watching me try to choke this stuff down. You just have to promise that you won't tell anyone - especially Canada."

"America..." England breathed out, stunned. "You don't have to do-"

"Shut it." America interrupted him firmly. "It'll make you happy to drink tea with me, won't it? Just this one last time, I'll share a cup with you if you give me a smile. That seems like a fair trade, old man."

By the time America finally finished choking through his cup, England hadn't smiled once.

He'd smiled five times.

America enjoyed each one. Had he known that they would be the last for a few years, he'd have memorized them better.

* * *

**A/N:**

Wow. This update took forever, didn't it? I hope that, after re-writing this a number of times, it didn't disappoint after such a long hiatus.

1903 - The Wright Brothers achieved the first sustained flight. But Europe, at the time, believed it to be a brag without merit and more or less dismissed the claims of this new American invention since they already felt that zepplins were satisfactory enough as air flight transportation.

1904 - The _Entente Cordiale _is signed between the French Republic and British Empire for the sake of establishing peace in their better interests. This also allowed them to keep out of having to take sides in the Japanese-Russian conflicts during this time.

1908 - The Wright Brothers, after having a few years to perfect the airplane, began having demonstrations throughout Europe to prove to their European detractors that what they had achieved was truly remarkable. And with the Hindenburg Disaster, airplanes became an accelerated popular technology.

1912 - Sinking of the _Titanic_. Sadly, many factors contributed to the disaster beyond just the collision with an iceberg at sea. It was later found out that the _SS Californian_ was actually close enough to the damaged ship that they could have intercepted it and saved many lives - but due to miscommunications, it did not move to assist the failing _Titanic_. The greatest percentage of the 1514 casualties reported were men, crew and the third class passengers. Though it has been stated that the officers had ordered that women and children would take priority for being saved, 52 of the 79 Third Class children died. Most of them remaining unnamed.

Next installment: The world turns, and War begins.


End file.
